


you and i

by what_is_a_social_life



Series: they say we are asleep (until we fall in love) [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And we learn how to navigate a relationship after that, Canon Blending, Developing Relationship, F/M, Feminist Themes, Let Sansa have people who care about her who live with/near her and aren't dead 2k20, Marriage, Nothing super explicit but it happened, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_is_a_social_life/pseuds/what_is_a_social_life
Summary: and no one else. || Sansa, Tyrion, and waking up.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Series: they say we are asleep (until we fall in love) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1377724
Comments: 108
Kudos: 99





	1. it's our secret

**Author's Note:**

> This is the direct sequel to “it’s like some kind of clarity”, so you might want to read that first, but it shouldn’t be a requirement. All titles taken from “No One Else” from Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812.
> 
> I want to send a special shout-out to thistleandthorn, whose love for this series gave me the necessary drive to finish this chapter which has just been sitting and waiting for ages. Go check out their amazing  for the lady is risen  for the pining I am unable to adequately provide because I always want to get to the fluff lol

The horns blew loudly, and Tyrion watched as the gate slowly raised and the occupants of Winterfell came into view. He noted with some surprise that they were mostly men, making Sansa and the two women at her side stand out. One was Arya Stark, which he had not been expecting, though Bran certainly seemed to be if his smirk was anything to go by. The other had to be Jonelle Cerwyn, Sansa’s new Hand. She stood almost as tall as her queen, though far less imposing. He decided that if Sansa trusted her, then he must, too, or this journey’s main points would be moot.

The introductions were short and to the point, especially since most of both entourages knew each other. Sansa held out her hand when they greeted each other, so he tenderly pressed a kiss to it and watched her face carefully. She looked much more guarded than she had when they’d left, but his kiss brought a hesitant smile to her face that sent his heartbeat skyrocketing.

They arrived late enough in the day that they were escorted straight to the main hall for supper. He was seated next to Sansa at the high table, Arya to his left. He politely asked Arya about her travels while Sansa was occupied with introductions. Apparently, the Shadowlands of Essos were west of Westeros. The young wolf had also explored the Red Waste, Qarth, and even ventured up to the aptly named Unknown Lands before deciding she wanted, needed, to be with her pack, and so she came home. Sansa was quite mad at her for not writing, but she’d gotten over it, supposedly. He privately thought Arya was perhaps being a little cavalier about that fact, but then again, she hadn’t been receiving letters from Sansa in which she practically fell at his knees thanking him for writing her because he was the only one who would.

Sansa herself was oddly silent at dinner, when not greeting those who approached the head table to speak with her. He thought about trying to draw some conversation out of her, but he wasn’t sure what to say. The fact that they were still married was racing through his brain and made him clam up in a very uncharacteristic way. It was one thing to write letters to his estranged wife, to try and soothe her anxieties and let her soothe his own, but it would be another to ask her, point-blank, what they were, what this all meant, and how to proceed with their marriage.

Divided loyalties. Duty is the death of love. He was repenting for treason by serving the Realm, serving an all-knowing, all-seeing king who just so happened to be his brother-in-law. She was striking out on her own, finally allowing the world to see her as he always had: Brave, intelligent, strong, funny.

And not just any treason, either, but engineering the death of his Queen, of a woman he claimed to love, the same way he killed Shae. Hells, he might as well have killed Tysha too. He had too much blood on his hands for someone as wonderful as Sansa to be trapped with him.

“She wants to talk to you, you know,” Arya said quietly. Sansa appeared to be taking her leave, but she was doing so slowly, making her rounds at the lower tables. She moved gracefully from person to person, speaking with them and clearly listening closely. He turned to Arya with a frown.

“What makes you say that?”

“She told me she’s been writing to you. Good. She didn’t tell me she was going to be alone when I left.”

“She wouldn’t have wanted you to stay on her account. And aren’t you going to Storm’s End anyway?”

“Because she’s making me,” Arya said, rolling her eyes. He quite doubted that was true, and took a sip of wine to hide his smile from her. “She doesn’t want me unhappy, or alone. Not that I’m alone here, but a pack is more than just the family you’re born into. And I want to live a real life. I can only do that with him. She knows I’ll visit, but it’s unfair to her, I think.” He set his goblet down carefully, trying to avoid her expression. “She wants to talk to you. She  _ needs _ to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Lord Glover’s being a dipshit about succession, and pressuring the other lords to think the same way. They’re trying to marry her off and get a child on her. She’s doing well, expressing enough interest to prove she’s taking things seriously without expressing enough to make them think she’s seriously going to accept their suit.”

His heart was pounding in double time again. What did that have to do with  _ him _ ?

“Go to her,” someone said, and he and Arya both turned to look at Bran. He stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused. Sansa had finally taken her exit, one of Lady Mormont’s former soldiers following her out of the room. “She needs you.”

“Is that a command, your grace?” Tyrion said with a snort.

“It is if that’s what it takes for you to do it,” Bran replied. Arya grinned widely at that. “Lady Hand, please show the Lord Hand to the Queen’s chambers,” he added to the woman at his side. Jonelle sat up straight in surprise.

“Pardon, your grace?”

“Lady Cerwyn, do as the King of the Six Kingdom instructs,” Arya said. Jonelle nodded, then stood and made her way off the dais. After a shove from Arya, he stood up and followed her.

They arrived at her chambers before his brain had caught up to what he was doing. Jonelle walked straight into the solar but stopped at the door that lead to her bed chamber. She knocked on the door and Sansa’s muffled voice called back.

“Lord Tyrion for you, your grace.”

A lady’s maid opened the door, curtseying to the two of them before brushing past them. Jonelle stared at him, holding her hand out as if gesturing into the room. He did so slowly, and then the door to the solar shut loudly.

He’d never been in Sansa’s bed chamber before. He stepped in reverently. Candles were lit in strategic places. The bed stretched out towards the door, with a vanity table on the left next to the door. Close to the door on the right was a small table with a chair on either side, with a pitcher of something on it and some sort of history tome whose title he could not fully make out, but he saw something about the First Men on the spine. A screen stood in the back corner, and through the candlelight he could see Sansa’s shadow behind it. His mind, already slow, completely stalled for a moment before she stepped out from behind it in a night dress and a dressing gown. That seemed to shock him back to the present.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said demurely, but it was too demure. She was playing at something. Was Arya in on this? Was Sansa… seducing him?

“Your grace, why am I here?” he asked, watching her every move. She frowned, but her eyes danced with what he thought might be mischief.

“What do you mean? Bran brought you here--”

“Don’t do that. Why am I in your bedchamber. After dinner. While you’re in your dressing gown.”

Sansa took a seat at her dressing table and brushed out her hair. He sat on the edge of her bed, daring her to chastise him for such a move. She did not, which only confirmed his suspicions. He fiddled with the hem of his doublet. Two could play at this game, then.

“Does this have to do with Lord Glover, your grace?”

“What do you know about Lord Glover?”

He looked up at her, now, admired her neck and her hair, then smiled, thinking of what the young wolf had said to him at dinner.

“According to Lady Arya, he’s being a dipshit about succession. I see time on a ship has sharpened her language.” Sansa smirked at him in the mirror as she set down her brush and began to braid her hair. “Have I been misinformed?”

“No.”

“So what is this? A seduction attempt?”

“Would that be unwelcome?”

“Your grace--”

“We are well past such formalities, Tyrion, and you know it,” she said, and this time she spun around to face him, pinching the tip of her braid between her fingers. 

“I agree.”

Sansa had received her tutelage under men who knew better than to show their hand first. He had no doubt that she had little intention of doing anything else, but by letting him into her chamber, she’d tipped him her cards. The least she could do was finish it.

“Lord Glover is of the opinion that a queen’s only duty is to provide heirs. As I am unmarried, I have yet to succeed,” she said, reaching blindly for a ribbon to tie off the braid.

“So you are what? Looking for a way out?”

He laughed when she didn’t answer, instead focusing on her hair. It sounded wrong and harsh to his own ears. Oh, if only she knew the irony of all this. She already had a way out with him and she didn’t even seem to suspect it. Instead, she was looking for him to... what, get a child on her? Her Northern lords would surely love that, a dwarf Lannister-bred bastard taking over their throne.

“Sansa, you can’t be serious.”

“Yes, I can.”

“The best you’ll accomplish is having a dwarf bastard whom the entire realm does not trust. What if you died in childbed like my mother? Why not just name Lady Arya your successor and let that be the end of it?” 

“I have, but she is to be the Lady of Storm’s End, meaning the North would very likely revert back into the Six Kingdoms.”

“Why am I here?” he asked, leaning towards her as if invading her personal space would change her mind. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Because I trust you! I trust you to be a good father, and a good partner. A good husband.”

She turned her attention to her lap as the breath left his lungs. It couldn’t be this easy. He couldn’t just say to her, “Well, how convenient…” and then fall into bed with her with no repercussions. She was the one who, just months ago, didn’t think they would work because he was loyal to Daenerys, even though, at the time, the woman was Sansa’s queen just as much as his. Now they were in separate realms; he had a debt to pay and she had a kingdom to run. It was one thing to dream of it, like he had when he wrote his last, unsent letter to her, but he couldn’t let her actually  _ do _ this.

“Sansa,” he said, unsure of what else to say that could adequately explain all the thoughts swirling around his brain.

“You don’t… you don’t need to decide, right now,” she said, standing like she was going to leave her own chambers out of embarrassment.

“You’re offering me, after everything I’ve done, to be the King in the North? Is that what this is?”

She sat back down, watching him with a more guarded expression than he’d seen on her in a while. He bit back a sigh at the sight. Such gazes were much better suited to their past.

“Lord of Winterfell, actually. My council agrees that anyone being the king would raise questions over who’s in charge.” He couldn’t help but laugh at that, and she did, too, just a little snort that made him laugh harder.

“I don’t think I can accept this, your grace,” he finally said, well aware that he was using her tactic of hiding behind courtesies, but he didn’t know what else to do.

“Why?”

“Because, for one, even if you trust me, I cannot see a room of Northerners ever trusting me or any of my offspring. Secondly, I am much too old and deformed for you. Thirdly, I am in your brother’s service for at least the next ten years. You could do much better than me in those ten years,” he said, ticking each reason out on his fingers. Sansa scoffed at him and held her own hand in front of his face, three fingers out.

“Firstly, you proved yourself in the Battle for the Dawn, and in service to Bran. Secondly, that is not true. Thirdly, that does not matter to me,” she said, raising her now closed fist to her neck. She reached the other hand up like she wanted to run it through her hair, but instead she rubbed them both against the sides of her neck, taking a few steps as she did so.

“I don’t-- I’m not asking you to fall in love with me, Tyrion. You can have whores and mistresses, in King’s Landing, please, but you can have them and I won’t care. I want a friend, someone I can talk to, who can help me without making me feel like an idiot, and whom I can trust with my body and my children. I am so tired of letting other people make those decisions for me. It is my turn, and I choose you, if you’ll have me.”

She started pacing, then, avoiding looking him in the eye, and wrung her hands in front of her. He bit back another sigh at the sight. When she put it like that, he didn’t know how he could refuse her. But she’d shown her hand; he might as well return the favor.

“If we do this,” he said, and he couldn’t push off the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth as she turned to stare at him, “I have killed, and I have betrayed people, and I am trying to be better but I don’t know how well I am doing.”

“So we have another few things in common, then,” she said, simply. With a bravery he certainly didn’t possess, she took a seat next to him on the bed, staring at him hopefully. “Is that a yes, husband?”

“Yes, wife. And you are still my wife. Bran told me shortly before we arrived.” Trying to match her courage, he let his pinkie brush against hers, too scared to take it of his own volition. She looked down once they made contact, and took his hand in hers, threading their fingers together. Her hand was clammy, which made him realize just how nervous she had been during this whole scene. She certainly had the most to lose, he supposed. She’d won his heart long ago, though.

“Do you think he knew?”

“What doesn’t your brother know? It’s bloody annoying serving him. I have nothing to do.”

“And that’s why it’s a punishment, I suppose,” she said.

“I suppose,” he replied, suddenly yawning as the day caught up to him. With her free hand, Sansa reached up to cup his face.

“Sleep, husband. I had the liberty of having your things brought to the room next door, so you won’t have far to go tomorrow morning.”

“Do you have plans for me tonight, your grace?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows just to hear her laugh, which she did even as her hand that held his tightened a little.

“I thought I might have to in order to get you to stay.”

“No, you don’t. I will still observe my watch, Sansa, and there will be no whores or mistresses, here or in King’s Landing. I would not do that to you. It is your body, and it has been abused, and your choices taken away too many times. If you’d like, I will share your bed to sleep, but nothing more.”

“I would like that,” she said, and he did not know how moved first, but suddenly his lips were on hers and the hand that held his cheek tangled in his hair and it all lasted much longer than he expected, until he could no longer breathe and pulled away panting. Sansa’s own breath was heavy, and her eyes dark with desire. It sent a thrill to him that went straight to his cock, seeing the effect a kiss from him was able to have on her.

“I shall return.”

When he did come back a few minutes later, she’d blown out all but one of the candles and turned down the bed. She stood on the right hand side of it, so he went over to the left and noticed a small stool there, the one she’d had built for him when he stayed at Winterfell last time. He looked up at her and watched her blush as she hastily climbed into the bed. He followed suit, pulling himself up and onto the pillows. Sansa blew out the candle and, in the dark, slowly reached for him, resting her head on his chest. He wrapped an arm around her with equal trepidation, his fingers settling on her back and rubbing lightly at the tension he felt there.

“Good night, Tyrion.”

Mustering up that courage from before, he pressed a kiss to her hairline before murmuring the same to her.

It was the most peaceful sleep he’d had in weeks.

* * *

He woke after her, but her side of the bed was still warm and a fire roared in the hearth. She sat at her dressing table again, brushing out her hair. The handmaid from last night drew a bath in the corner. Once he made his way down from the bed, he crossed to the dressing table and pressed a kiss to Sansa’s free hand, his stomach fluttering as she smiled tiredly at him.

“Good morning,” he said, dropping her hand. “And good morning to you,” he added, calling towards the handmaid.

“Talya, milord,” she answered, throwing in a small curtsey before returning to her task.

“Good morning, Talya.” He turned back to Sansa and asked the question neither of them had dared to the night before, “So when do we announce? And what do we announce?”

“Let’s wait until the end of the visit, so that my people get the time to see you and know you, but more importantly see us. It is not a secret that we were married, once.”

“And your siblings? We should tell them first, shouldn’t we?”

“Well, we can assume that Bran either knows already or has an inkling. Arya does, too, I think, if what you reported to me yesterday is any indication. We can tell them tonight, take our supper together, in private. It would not be out of the question for us to do so. And I’ll make sure Brienne is posted at the door, in case Arya feels the need to draw her sword.”

He swallowed, thinking of how the woman who killed the Night King was now his goodsister and his goodbrother could know whatever he liked about anyone; he already planned to do everything in his power to never hurt his wife, but now he had a much greater incentive to do so.

“Alright,” he said. Sansa turned to Talya.

“Will you see to it that all is done with that?”

“Yes, your grace. Will you be breaking your fast in your chambers or in the hall?”

“We’ll both go down to the hall, thank you. And another chair is being brought to my solar for our discussions today?”

“Yes, Corrad will bring it once you leave for the main hall.”

“Excellent. Is that ready?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Thank you, Talya. You are dismissed.” Talya curtseyed again then did so. Sansa waited until they heard the larger bang indicating the main door to her chambers had been shut before standing, placing her dressing gown over her screen. Tyrion took this as his cue to leave, calling to her that he would see her at breakfast.

He was practically done with his meal by the time she arrived, but he did not move from his seat even once he had finished and she’d barely even taken more than a few grapes. At least he was unlikely to get questions about whether or not he’d spent the night in her chambers. The fact that she had bathed and he had not was already a good distraction, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d done it more for that purpose than hygiene.

They seemed to be early risers regardless, though, since only about half the hall was full when Sansa sat down, and only Brienne and Davos had joined them at the table. As she ate and the four chatted benignly, the other tables started to fill. Arya came in chatting animatedly with Jonelle. Bronn stumbled in fighting back a yawn. Bran was rolled in by Podrick just as everyone seemed to be gaining their footing on another new day. Once he had taken his spot next to Sansa on her opposite side, the woman in question stood, and the hall immediately quieted, which was a rather impressive feat.

“There will be no petitions today, as I will be in meetings with the delegation from the Six Kingdoms. I believe some of the Kingsguard have agreed to do some training out in the yard, if anyone is interested. If there are any pressing concerns, do not hesitate to speak to Maester Wolkan or the steward, Evin Whitehill.” She nodded her head before sitting back down, but before any noise could resume, Bran spoke in a much more resounding voice than Tyrion had ever heard from him.

“We would all do well to wish my sister, Queen Sansa, and my Hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister, congratulations. The two have decided to resume their marriage, and we all wish you both well.”

In the back of the hall, a piece of cutlery clattered to the stone floor.


	2. catch my breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lord Manderly, do you have something you would like to add to this discussion? I’ve noticed you seem quite interested in the agricultural report Lord Magnar has prepared for us; perhaps you would rather speak on that?”
> 
> “Your grace, do you trust him? After all he and his family have done to you and to yours?”
> 
> “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can already feel this fic spinning away from me. I haven’t yet figured out if it will cover less plot than I thought, be longer, or both. How could it be both? Let’s find out.
> 
> Also, we’re playing fast and loose with canon from here on out. I promise I’m doing research on stuff I don’t know from the books/have forgotten from the show but things will both slip through the cracks and be thrown out for my own purposes.

In that moment, Sansa really did think about what the consequences would be for attacking her brother in front of everyone. Arya could definitely pull them apart. She'd never done more than use a dagger before and the closest thing she had was a fork.

Someone from Bran's side of the table, she thought it might be Bronn, started applauding, loudly, and she watched as Bran, then Arya, then Davos and Brienne, and then the hall itself followed suit, and she blindly reached for Tyrion's hand to anchor her. At least now it was out there. She certainly hadn't had any idea on how to best announce it, but she'd figured saying something to her council and letting the rumors filter out from there would be enough. Then her family and advisors would know, and while she trusted Talya, she did not doubt that the fact that Tyrion had spent his night in her room and not his chambers had already circulated through the servants. But there was no chance of anonymity now.

She risked a glance at the table Lord Glover frequented. He noticed her stare almost immediately, and raised his cup to her before taking a drink. What was he toasting? Congratulations? Well played? Both?

It was a little bit of both, she supposed. After all, if he hadn't started laying into her about succession, she didn't know if she would have had the courage to do all she did last night, but last night… By the Gods, she'd never shared such an intimate moment before. If she thought the kiss in the crypts was something, she had been unprepared for the feeling of waking up in someone else's arms, his heartbeat anchoring her to the world and her legs tangled in his. He had been so warm, like her own personal fireplace, and he still smelled a little of dirt and pine from the road. Perhaps she should have offered him her bath that morning.

As the applause died down and everyone returned to their meals, Tyrion's thumb ran a few circles over the back of her hand before he pulled it away to reach for his cup, and she returned to her food. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Bronn stand from his chair and walk towards hr, but instead of coming up to her, he stopped at Podrick, standing stoically behind Bran with one a hand on the hilt of his sword, and dropped a gold dragon into Podrick's other, outstretched hand.

At that, she rolled her eyes, and resolved to spend more time befriending women now that the war was over and soldiers didn't have to be her only companions.

* * *

Supper started off silently. Brienne and Alran, who were both stationed at the door, could be heard mumbling to each other, though Sansa doubted they were actually mumbling. The table that sat around was square, but she and Bran had been seated opposite each other as if they were gathered around a rectangular one with a place of honor. Arya was to her left, and Tyrion to her right. She could feel Bran staring at her as she served herself and she sort of wanted to kick him under the table, even though he likely wouldn't even notice if she had.

"So, are you Tyrion Stark now?" Arya finally said, which broke Bran's gaze from her.

"I'm sorry?" Tyrion said.

"Doesn't the one with the lower house take the other's name? And since the Starks are both the Northern and Southern monarchs, I think it stands to reason you should take hers."

"Well, neither of us took each other's before," he said with a glance to Sansa. "I thought we would do the same. Will Lord Baratheon take your name?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Arya asked with a completely straight face. Sansa saw Bran roll his eyes, though he didn't add anything. Her sister continued to insist that she was only temporarily going to Storm's End at Sansa's insistence, as if Sansa hadn't seen her light up whenever Maester Wolkan gave her a letter from Gendry. She knew from Arya that he maintained close contact with Davos; she would have to figure out what the man had slipped to Tyrion on it all, since she doubted she would get much of real substance from Bran, even if he knew all the details.

"Their children will take the Stark name, Arya," Bran said with such certainty that she wondered if he had seen their children in one of his visions. The thought made her shiver, and she wasn't the only one disturbed, considering the look Arya and Tyrion shared.

No one seemed to have much more to say on that subject. She wasn't entirely sure what else to talk about. They'd all been apart for so long, and when they'd been reunited they all had goals. They had never really gotten the chance to be siblings as adults, or what passed for them. They couldn't exactly chase each other through the keep or scale walls or shoot arrows, not that Sansa had ever done some of those things with Arya and Bran, always so wild. There was no dynamic to fit Tyrion into. She was starting to wonder if this meal had been a good idea.

"What's the most embarrassing story you can tell me about my wife from when you were children?"

"Tyrion!" Sansa shrieked as Arya burst into laughter. Even Bran cracked a smile.

"What about in the crypts, when you punched Jon?" he said to Arya, who grinned impishly and launched into the tale of how Jon had decorated himself up like a ghost and scared her (And Bran, she made sure to note to her husband). Tyrion told a somewhat similar tale of something he and Jaime had done to Cersei, but the pain in his eyes as he told it was raw, and she took his hand under the table and squeezed it, hoping he would get comfort from it.

Tyrion was silent when they returned to her- well, their- chambers. She decided to change behind the screen with Talya's assistance. If she found the request strange, she gave no indication of it, for which Sansa found herself eternally grateful. Any of the courage she'd raised last night, when she intended to bed Tyrion if he left her no other option, had vanished.

Once she was changed, she and Talya emerged, and Tyrion asked the maid if she would be able to draw a bath for him in his previous chambers. Talya started to nod when Sansa found herself saying, "Don't be ridiculous, Tyrion; you can bathe in your own chambers."

"I didn't want to disturb," he said, turning his attention from Talya, behind Sansa, to her. She couldn't quite read his expression the way she could most people's. His brow was furrowed, though, so he was probably confused. She didn't blame him for that.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," she managed to say with a light, even tone, before she turned to Talya and added, "Draw his bath in here; I'll be in my solar."

She made her way over to her desk in the other room before Tyrion or Talya could say a word. Maester Wolkan had left her a bundle of correspondence that had arrived while she had been in meetings trying to work out trade deals as the need for Southern grain became more and more imperative in the North, with a similar need for Northern furs in the Six Kingdoms. She poured herself some wine and took a seat.

Four of the five letters were from Northern houses. House Karstark wanted betrothal advice. House Umber needed more lumber, which she found herself repeating like it was one of Old Nan's nursery rhymes. House Cerwyn wanted to know when Jonelle's service would be up so they could betroth her, which she set aside with a sigh, making a note to talk to her Hand about it tomorrow. Up at Bear Island, Alysanne Mormont was simply continuing the correspondence she and Sansa had struck up while Tyrion was traveling the Kingsroad.

After reclaiming the Iron Islands, Yara Greyjoy had discovered the second oldest Mormont daughter had been held in captivity for several years; no had even bothered to try and ransom her. No one knew what had happened to the middle two, Sansa was fairly sure their names were Lyra and Jorelle, but she didn't know for certain, but Alysanne had taken her family's seat upon her return. Their correspondence had started when Alysanne asked for her two children to be legitimized, and had evolved into a discussion of being a woman in power. She set that one aside, too, planning to respond to it tomorrow, while House Karstark and House Umber's she would write tonight and give to the maester first thing in the morning.

She was already smiling from Alysanne's letter, but it grew even bigger when she realized the last letter was from Castle Black, and therefore Jon. In her haste to break the seal, she knocked over her wine. While the letters remained unaffected, she could not say the same for her shift, which now had a large purple stain against the thigh.

It was not until she reached the door into her bedchamber that she remembered Tyrion was behind the door. Alone. Bathing. She'd looked up every time Talya had entered and exited the room, and she hadn't brought the tub out yet. She debated returning to Jon's letter, but she was soaked, and this way, Talya could take her dress to launder when she returned.

"Tyrion?" she called, knocking on the door. "I spilled wine on my shift; do you mind if I change?"

"No, I don't mind," he called back. She took a deep breath, then opened the door.

The bath had been placed in its usual spot by the dressing screen, and he sat in it the same way she did, so that he couldn't see his reflection in the mirror, and thus he had his back to her. He sat straight up, the muscles in his back tense. She wasn't sure he'd ever seen his back before, which was a strange realization to have about a person. It had a few freckles up by the shoulders, likely earned as a child on the beaches near Casterly Rock, but nothing else, unlike hers.

With a blush beginning to form on her cheeks, she walked purposefully over to the armoire and pulled out another shift. She didn't entirely know where to change, but decided that even with the bath so close, the screen would be the best way for them to stay distant, so she walked back behind it and quickly exchanged shifts, turning her back to the screen and her face to the stone wall.

She stepped back out from behind the screen and hung the wet shift over it. He no longer stared straight ahead, and was trying to rub something along his back, but he couldn't quite reach. Without a word, she took a seat behind the tub and grabbed his hand, slowly moving the cloth out from his grip. Up close, there was grime from the road she hadn't noticed, and she wet the cloth again before slowly wiping it down his back.

The morning of their wedding in King's Landing, Margaery had pulled her for an early walk in the gardens. She'd taken it upon herself to brief Sansa on the wedding night, and Margaery's description was much more interesting sounding than Septa Mordane's had been, though no less terrifying. One thing she'd made sure to explain to Sansa was that sex wasn't intimacy. They'd been whispering for the most part, so as not to be overheard, and she still remembered the steel of Margaery's voice and the grip on her arms as she explained that sex was a weapon, and intimacy, while lovely, could be weakness. It was the only time Sansa had felt she truly understood the relationship between Margaery and Cersei. Cersei had clearly seen much of herself in Margaery, and she had loathed it as much as she'd been jealous of it.

Because as she did this, she heard Cersei's voice in her head repeating Margaery's words, in the same tone the woman had used during the Battle of Blackwater, when she'd told Sansa that what was between her legs was her greatest weapon.

"Why," Tyrion began, but his voice came out scratchy, so he cleared his throat, "Why did you say that earlier, to your maid? That it was nothing you hadn't seen before?"

"I'm not a maiden, milord," she said, and she hated that even now she slipped into these pleasantries and platitudes.

"Are you hoping to spread rumors that I've bedded you, for Lord Glover to hear?"

"No," though, she realized, that would be an added bonus.

"Then why?"

"Because this is your home, and you deserve to be comfortable here."

He turned at that, and cupped her face. She kissed him slowly, softly, and hoped that he would realize she meant those words, that she wanted him to be comfortable and safe and happy and hers, that she wanted the intimacy that had been denied to her for so long, no matter how weak it made her.

* * *

Her council waited a few days to approach her about it, until after a bulk of the negotiations were over and they were meeting alone for the first time since the arrival of the Southern contingent. Jonelle was nothing but supportive of the development, which was just about what she expected considering the knowing smirks Jonelle had started shooting her way whenever she received a raven from Tyrion. Alran Tallhart, the captain of her Queensguard, and Maester Wolkan very explicitly had no reaction. Lord Alaric Magnar, her Master of Coin, seemed to have little interest in the whole affair, feigned or otherwise. Lord Wyman Manderly, her Master of Ships, and Lord Robbett Glover, her Master of Laws since, unfortunately, he had the keenest mind for remembering rules and precedents in the whole North, however, were not quite as schooled.

"I am simply concerned about the type of precedent we will be setting for the future," Lord Glover argued, leaning back in his chair like nothing mattered. Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She hated that this was the price she had to pay to keep the Glovers firmly under her thumb.

"Are you saying no one in the North should be married to those from the Six Kingdoms or even Essos, Lord Glover? Within just a few generations, the Northern houses would be so intermarried everyone would be your cousin. We're already at risk of it with some of the larger houses here. We all know what such marriage can lead to, the children it breeds. Some of you lived it twice! I think that would be the more dangerous precedent," Jonelle said, and Sansa smiled. This was exactly why this woman had been chosen as her Hand.

"Where will he reside? What will his citizenship status and title be here? Will your children ever live in the Six Kingdoms; will you? Does he hold claim over Casterly Rock and, if so, what will that mean for your children?" Lord Glover pressed, and Sansa held up a hand to stop his tirade before it could evolve any further.

"To be quite frank, milord, I do not know the answers to all of your questions. I think they are questions that we have to answer for all of our citizens, not just my husband, and especially because what Lady Cerwyn has stated is true. Our country is practically an infant, and we have to learn how to walk and talk the same as they do. I believe this should take higher precedence than the status of my husband's citizenship and the inheritance of my yet to be conceived children."

Lord Magnar, who had maintained a stoic expression during the whole exchange, made a face like he sucked on a sour lemon the second she said the word 'conceived.'

"Lord Manderly, do you have something you would like to add to this discussion? I've noticed you seem quite interested in the agricultural report Lord Magnar has prepared for us; perhaps you would rather speak on that?"

"Your grace, do you trust him? After all he and his family have done to you and to yours?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. He finally looked up from the papers in front of him to her and held her gaze for a long moment.

"Alright."

"So the Council will recognize our marriage and we will declare Tyrion Lannister as the Lord of Winterfell and the Prince Consort in the North?" she asked. The latter was a title she'd found in an old history tome dating back to before the Targaryen conquest, when Kings and Queens had ruled the North.

"Yes," Lord Glover said, with a tilt of his head that everyone copied.

"Will he join us on the council, your grace?" Maester Wolkan asked. Sansa hesitated before shaking her head.

"He will join the yearly council of all the landholders as the Lord of Winterfell. And he shall help me judge petitions and carry out justice in the same role. Other than that, I will not give him further powers and authority without your consent." They all nodded again, and this time she did, too. "Excellent. Lord Magnar, walk us through this report, if you please."

* * *

"They are all good questions," Tyrion said as they sat at the table in what was slowly becoming truly _their_ chambers. His trunk had been moved in their third night together. Some of the history tomes she'd already read had started stacking their way onto the small table by the window in her solar as Tyrion began to learn more about his new… home? Country? She didn't know. He'd brought her a cyvasse set for her name day, which now rested on the table. They were supposedly playing a game, but really just talking about their day. It was for the best; she was still rubbish at it, despite all of Tyrion's gentle instruction.

She'd made the decision for them to eat their evening meal alone. Tomorrow would be the last day before the delegation set off for King's Landing. The two of them hadn't discussed it. She had no idea if Tyrion was planning on staying or going, what Bran had asked him to do. Other than his announcement or blessing or whatever that had been in the main hall, Bran hadn't spoken to her directly about her marriage, and she didn't quite know what that meant.

"Do you still have Casterly Rock?" she asked. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and studied the board. It was his turn, after all.

"I retain the title, but I have forfeited it in all but name while serving my penance. We named one of my cousins the lord regent when we called our men to swear fealty to the new king. I don't know if I'll take it back. I don't know if I want to. I don't have many happy memories there."

"So you want to continue to serve my brother."

It was not a question. Tyrion looked up from the board to her, and nodded once.

"Yes. My sister, my nephew, my queen… They have all wreaked havoc on the South. I feel I must right their wrongs, as well as my own." He picked up his goblet and took a long drag of wine, but she could almost hear what she was thinking. He blamed himself, for Daenerys, for Cersei, for Joffrey, for Myrcella and Tommen. For Jaime, perhaps, most of all. She thought she understood. She blamed herself for a lot of things, too.

"Is that a problem, Sansa?" he added, and she blinked. She shook her head, reaching around the cyvasse board to take his hand.

"We won't let it be," she said, even as the part of her that had learned too much from Petyr chanted _duty is the death of love_. She told him that she didn't need love from him, though she couldn't deny that she wanted it. Her younger self would never have thought of it.

"What else was there? My title?" he asked, finally playing, and she groaned, making him laugh. He'd taken one of her elephants.

"Lord of Winterfell and Prince Consort in the North."

"Prince Consort?"

"Yes, apparently making you a king means you have more power than me. It's an old title, from before the Targaryean conquest."

"I like it." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, feeling a warmth run through her at the sight.

"I'm glad. Your titles mean you'll be expected to retain citizenship in both countries. I don't see why we shouldn't allow it." She looked down at the board, more to hide her face than study it, then back up at him. "I won't live in King's Landing again."

"I wouldn't ask you to," he said, and she knew without a doubt that he meant it.

"I'm not ruling out that I wouldn't visit, I suppose, what with Bran there, but the North is my home. Winterfell is my home."

"I'll split my time as best as I can. I want to be your partner, if that's what you want, too." She nodded, and he pressed a kiss to her hand. "When does Arya leave?"

"With everyone else, two days from now. One of the Kingsguard will escort her on foot to Storm's End once you reach the capital, since Shipbreaker Bay isn't always the kindest stopping point, and you're all sailing to Blackwater Bay anyways. She complained about it, but I'll feel better knowing she's not alone."

"I'm not going to leave tomorrow," he said, and she snapped her eyes directly to his in shock. "I want to get to know you and your- _our_ \- people better. Arya is going to marry Gendry, right?"

"I'm fairly confident, though she won't say as much. I asked Maester Wolkan if he'd read any of their letters, and he acted all offended but he winked and said that he had high hopes for their future."

"And that'll likely be in a few moons, then. I thought I could travel down with you, attend the wedding, and then return to King's Landing from there."

She nodded, unsure what else to say, so she made her move in cyvasse. They played for hours, until she yawned everytime she tried to say something and he practically pushed her into the bed. She realized when her head hit the pillow they didn't drop each other's hands the whole rest of the game.


	3. we were angels once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jon!" Sansa called, startling him, and he turned and smiled at her. Jon rose from his side of the table to pull her into a hug. Tyrion noticed how tightly she held on, and wondered if she, too, noticed how hollow his face looked and the dullness of his eyes and was trying to give him as much love and warmth as she could.
> 
> "How are you?" she asked, pulling away and looking him up and down.
> 
> "Fine. And you?"
> 
> "Fine," she said, and Tyrion rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure that was a word he would use to describe either of them these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm a couple chapters ahead, so hopefully chapter four will be out next Thursday.
> 
> As for this chapter, I don't love it, but hopefully, at the very least, it's effective in moving us along and not just filler. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Warning: Allusions to Ramsay's treatment of Sansa; nothing explicit

Tyrion was the only one who noticed Sansa's tears as Arya, Bran, and all the rest rode out of Winterfell for White Harbor. He followed her to an alcove just off of the main hall and passed her his handkerchief. She smiled at him, then dried her eyes and walked purposefully into the room. Jonelle was already standing next to her throne. Tyrion took up the same post on the opposite side, which made her smile, something she didn't often do in this room. She had said he would be getting a throne- a less grand one, at her council's request, even though 'grand' was not the first word he would use to describe hers- soon, but he was content to simply stand there and learn

The weeks continued that way. Her schedule was heavy; it had to be as they continued to build a kingdom from the ground up, and he was honored that she would talk about it with him almost as much as she would with Jonelle.

It was certainly different than the life he'd been building for himself in King's Landing. They would spend quiet nights in her solar, reading, sometimes aloud to each other. He mostly read history tomes he would liberate from the library, despite Maester Wolkan's pleas he not do that, and she would read correspondence and proposals. They talked things over, about the Northern houses and customs and people, about the news they received from mutual acquaintances and the gossip Talya shared with them when she helped Sansa dress. Her council did not have a formal Master of Whispers, he'd learned, but Sansa said that between Ser Alran, Talya, Jonelle, and the castle steward Evin, she was able to pick up quite a lot.

They didn't talk about _them_ , much, though. About their pasts, about their marriage. In some regards, it wasn't all that different from how the two of them had been back in King's Landing. But this time, there was kissing. A lot of kissing, which he was quite enjoying. He had taken to kissing her hand, and her forehead, but he rarely, if ever, kissed her lips unless she initiated it. As time wore on, he found she was doing it more and more. He'd introduced her to adding tongue; she'd admitted to as much with a furious blush rising up her pretty neck. One day he'd kissed her slowly down that neck before sucking hard enough to leave a bruise on her shoulder. He made sure it was easy for her to cover, but he couldn't quite resist. He had been quite proud of it, especially when Talya found it when helping his wife dress the next morning and the handmaiden blushed furiously.

Another day, he'd been sitting at the table in their bedchamber as she did her hair and lotions for bed. He was writing a letter to Bronn, recently returned to the capital and asking for Tyrion's advice on some tax he was considering. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the rustle of the quill against the parchment. He'd never appreciated silence like this before. Shae would talk while he worked, but with Sansa he could just be.

When she was finished, she walked over to the table and sat across from him, watching him. He glanced up at her without really moving his head, then looked back down at the paper.

"Yes, wife?" he said, mostly teasing. She certainly wanted something, but he wasn't going to assume.

"I thought you wanted to read to me tonight?"

"I do, but I have to send this out first thing tomorrow or Bronn will ride up here to slap my head." She rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything.

"Alright," she said with a more long suffering sigh than he thought she truly meant. He smirked to himself, hoping she wouldn't notice, as she stood.

She had to walk past him to get to her sewing basket, which he assumed she would go for since they were expecting a wedding invitation from Arya within the next fortnight. (Sansa said the next sennight, and they'd bet a gold dragon on it. He thought she was being much too romantic, but she insisted that while Arya was stubborn, she wasn't that stubborn, and she clearly cared for the young lord.)

He was thus unsurprised when she stepped forward, towards him, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering longer than was strictly necessary. But before she could pull away, he turned his face so her lips were on his. His quill clattered against the table as he cupped her cheek. He was vaguely aware she was bent at an awkward angle, but he was still surprised enough to gasp when she fell down onto his lap. He saw her flush and make to stand, but he simply wrapped his arms firmly around her, holding her close.

It was a new sensation, kissing Sansa like this. Most of it had been on their bed, in the dark, sitting side by side, though he'd certainly thought about pulling her close like this in recent days as she'd grown more daring. He didn't want to pressure her; he knew enough about how the Bolton bastard had treated her to know that she needed both time and agency, which he was quite willing to give her, despite the way his cock twitched at her warm weight on top of him. God, if she spread her legs, he might be in trouble. She'd brushed against a morning erection of his once or twice without much fanfare, but this would be different.

They continued to kiss, and she slipped her tongue along his lip, hoping for access, which he gave with another sigh against her. She shifted again, and swung a leg over so she straddled him, just as he'd feared she might. This time the two of them fully stopped, breathing heavily and not looking at each other. At least this position had an effect on her, too.

"I should let you get back to your letter," she said. A piece of hair fell into her face and Tyrion reached up to push it back, admiring the way her lips had swollen and her breasts heaved as he did so. He'd done that, and it made his cock twitch again.

"You're welcome to distract me whenever you'd like," he replied earnestly. She raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't you start this?"

"Perhaps," he said, smirking, and she pushed herself off him with a roll of her eyes and continued on to grab her sewing basket. Once her back was to him, he glanced down at himself and closed his eyes, flicking through images to find the one that would make blood stop flowing to his cock before he embarrassed his wife any further.

* * *

The wedding invitation arrived almost exactly two weeks after Arya's confirmed arrival in the Stormlands, which meant that Sansa owed Tyrion a gold dragon. He really thought that she should've known better.

Once they had a letter from Jon which, according to Sansa, contained any sort of personal information for the first time since his banishment, they began to make travel plans. He announced he would be in Winterfell in two days' time, and everything else was just more on the land surveys he and his men had been doing.

Since it was winter, it was decided a ship would be a better bet than the Kingsroad, the same decision that Bran and Davos had made. They would ride on foot to White Harbor and sail to Tarth, where a captain more experienced with Shipbreaker Bay would sail them to Storm's End. It would make the most sense to leave as soon as Jon had arrived in case they were caught in any storms.

Sansa was in a council meeting, making arrangements for while she was gone, when he did. Arya had invited Jonelle, too, to both their surprise, so Sansa was leaving, somewhat begrudgingly, Lord Glover in charge. As Master of Laws, he had the next most obvious understanding to lead if anything were to happen. Lord Manderly would accompany them to White Harbour.

It was thus left to him to greet Jon, along with Evin. Jon greeted both of them cordially, and let Evin take his horse and saddle bag to the stables and his room, respectively. That left the two of them staring at each other in the yard.

"So it's true," Jon said, "I thought Arya was joking."

"Sansa didn't tell you herself?" Tyrion asked.

"She said that the two of you were still married, but I thought that meant legally. Arya kept going on about you two being rather... mushy, I think was the word she chose. I didn't expect to see you here."

They stared at each other for a few awkward seconds more before Tyrion cleared his throat.

"Sansa's in a council meeting. She'll be free shortly."

Jon nodded and set off into the keep, giving Tyrion little choice but to follow him. His goodbrother- goodcousin?- knew Winterfell much better than he did, after all.

They wound up in the library, somewhat surprisingly, and Tyrion lost Jon to the stacks. He took a moment to ask a servant to tell Sansa's guards where they were, then sat at the library's front table to catch his breath. Jon joined him a moment later with a thick book, which he sat down in front of Tyrion. The cover was bare, but it was clearly old and worn. He glanced at Jon in question, who nodded, so Tyrion opened it.

It was a family record, he realized, dating back several decades. The first pages were all for births, and he flipped through them reverently, stopping when he reached the current generation.

"How did this survive the fire?" he asked.

"We found it in the crypts, after the Long Night. I think Maester Luwin hid it there at some point after Theon took the keep. I recognized it instantly. When I was younger, I spent hours pouring over it, and so I made sure it got returned to the right spot in the stacks." He shrugged, like it was no big deal.

Jon's name, Tyrion noticed, was not recorded. It was clearly a bit of a deal.

"Most of the family's bastards aren't in it," he added, noticing Tyrion's skepticism.

"Well, you're not a bastard. How would you like to be recorded?" Tyrion said, reaching for one of the quills and inkwells scattered across the table. He dipped the quill, then held it over the page as he stared expectantly at Jon.

"Jon Aegon Snow," he finally said, and Tyrion nodded, carefully adding _Jon Aegon Snow, to Rhaegar Targaryean and Lyanna Stark, b. 282 AC_ under the line that read _Rickon Stark, to Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, b. 292 AC_.

"Why does no one else have the middle name?"

"It's not really a custom in the North. Why? Do you have one?"

"Damon, after one of my uncles on my mother's side." He set the quill and inkwell back towards the center of the table, so he wouldn't accidentally knock it over and spill any on the book. "Why show me this? Wouldn't you want to show Sansa? Does she even know it survived?"

"We haven't updated it in a while," Jon said with another shrug, which wasn't really an answer. He idly wondered if Jon was trying to intimidate him somehow, but he had a family legacy, too, even if his ancestors weren't Kings in the North.

Tyrion flipped through a collection of blank pages, saved for future Stark births, then found the marriages section. The last recorded marriage was Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn's. He tried to remember if Winterfell had been sacked before the Red Wedding. He was fairly confident it had been, but he didn't know by how much, so he didn't know if it was unexpected or not for Robb's name not to be there.

Ned Stark, however, had made the last filled page in the deaths section, confirming at least that.

"Jon!" Sansa called, startling him, and he turned and smiled at her. Jon rose from his side of the table to pull her into a hug. Tyrion noticed how tightly she held on, and wondered if she, too, noticed how hollow his face looked and the dullness of his eyes and was trying to give him as much love and warmth as she could.

"How are you?" she asked, pulling away and looking him up and down.

"Fine. And you?"

"Fine," she said, and Tyrion rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure that was a word he would use to describe either of them these days; Jon had clearly returned to brooding, and Sansa was overworking herself.

Jon was his usual cheerful self all through dinner, confirming his suspicions. If the less than subtle looks Sansa kept shooting him were any indication, she worried about it, too.

She finally asked him his thoughts on it when they were alone in their chambers. He didn't quite know how best to answer, because he knew the guilt that Jon lived with, and carried everywhere. They'd both killed the thing they loved most. It was something Sansa wouldn't understand, the shame of walking around with that on your chest, crushing you on your worst days. Perhaps selfishly, he didn't want to share that part of himself with her, to see her feelings for him change from fondness to disgust when she learned what he had done to Tysha and Shae. He knew she must have at the very least heard rumors about them.

"He is grieving, Sansa. He loved her quite a lot," he settled on, then quickly moved behind the screen to change, hoping that could be the end of the conversation.

"Should I speak with Bran about pardoning him?" Sansa called, and he stopped, peaking around the side of the screen to find his wife pacing across their chambers. When she spun around and saw him staring at her, she came to a stop, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Well?"

"You could, I suppose," he said, and that set her to pacing again, though the energy behind it seemed more frantic. He ducked back behind the screen to dress quickly.

"The Dothraki and the Unsullied are unlikely to return to Westeros. If we sheltered him at Winterfell, Bran could probably get away with saying something simple, like 'He remains in the North,' if they ever ask, and they would think he still served at Castle Black. Not that I expect letters from them; most of them barely spoke the Common Tongue, and I doubt any could write in it."

He emerged from behind the screen to find her stopped again and staring at him.

"He needs his family, Tyrion. My father used to always say that the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Jon should be here."

"What if the Northern lords call for him to replace you?" he asked, and she reeled back like he'd slapped her.

"They wouldn't; he's a queenslayer. They wouldn't trust him anymore. And he's not legitimized to them, technically, and he betrayed the North by bending the knee to her in the first place. They won't."

"Then what if they think he will take it for himself, the way he tried to seize the Iron Throne and became a queenslayer? They might not take kindly to you sheltering him at Winterfell."

She practically dropped into one of the chairs at the table.

"They wouldn't," she repeated. He sighed and sat down across from her, reaching for her hand.

"Sansa, you're smarter than this. You are blinded by your love for your family-"

"Yes, I am! My mother's words were 'Family, Duty, Honor,' Tyrion; I do not take my duty to mine lightly."

"I know that-"

"Being Queen isn't just about politics; it's about protecting my people, making sure they are safe, making sure mothers don't die in vain and women aren't raped and homes aren't burned. Jon serves the Night's Watch. You were there when Bran granted me authority over their deserters; he is one of my people."

"I was," he agreed, because she stared at him like it was his turn to say something.

"Why shouldn't I do everything I can for him? He was all I had for so long, and every time I write to him I get reports of grain and land surveys and encounters with wildings and bodies to burn. To be honest, I didn't know if he would agree to attend Arya's wedding, and the two of them have been close their entire lives. I won't let him die cold and alone and thinking we don't care for him anymore." Her eyes looked shiny, like she was about to cry, and Tyrion's heart broke at the sight. He ran his thumb across her hand in half-circles for a few moments, then took a deep breath.

"He doesn't think that. He wants to leave you clean of the blood on his hands. Why do you think I loved Daenerys?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Answer the question. I know you have ideas."

"She was powerful and cared for her people. I don't know. She was dedicated to her cause, almost single-mindedly so. She was loyal. Until it suited her, at least, but that's not what you're asking me."

"That is all true. She suffered great tragedy and for most of her life she was able to push past it, until she couldn't anymore. Such tragedy changes all of us. But when I met her, I'd hit my breaking point. I killed both my parents. I killed my lover, and my first wife. You had disappeared, abandoning me to face a trial for a crime I didn't commit. I was drinking away my days in Pentos and didn't think I could survive, but she had. It was the most alluring thing I'd seen. And she trusted me, at least for a while."

"What does that have to do with Jon?"

"When I met her, she had the love of Daario Naharis. A sellsword from Tyrosh, whom she left behind to rule Meereen in her stead, supposedly. She wanted to be untied to a man when she arrived in Westeros. At least that was how I saw it. I could not stand up to Daario Naharis to win her affections, but surely I could have when I was her Hand, before Jon came into her life. But I didn't. Why?"

"Because you are a dwarf and he was a sellsword?" Sansa guessed, and he shrugged.

"Part of it, sure, but I refused to lose her. Everything I love leaves me in the end, and it's almost always my fault. It even happened with her."

He thought of Tysha, thrown to the guards. He thought of Shae, lying in his father's bed. He thought of learning about Myrcella and Tommen. He thought of uncovering Jaime's body under the rubble of the Red Keep.

He thought of the black cell he sat in when Podrick informed him of Sansa's disappearance, and the bitter taste in his mouth. He hadn't loved her, yet, then, but he'd understood she was special to him, and she left him anyway.

"Tyrion," Sansa said, her voice no louder than a whisper, "You can't carry all that weight on your shoulders."

"Don't you? Don't you hate yourself for trusting Cersei, and Baelish, and Daenerys? Isn't that why you try to keep your family as close to you as you can?"

"I let Arya leave."

"No one lets your sister do anything." The corners of her lips twitched. "What your brother needs is time and space. He will come back to you when he's ready."

"Were you ready? To come back to me?" she asked.

"I didn't know until I woke up with you in my arms," he said, and he made sure to look at her so she could understand just how much he meant it. "Your heart is so good, Sansa. Write to Bran if you want, but you can't force Jon to do anything, either, and especially not now."

She pulled their intertwined hands up to her mouth and kissed his hand, then squeezed it tightly.


	4. joy and life inside our souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come on, Sansa! Live a little!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support. I know the reunion fic has been done a lot and there are certainly better versions of it out there, but I'm having fun and working my writing muscles in a way I haven't for a bit, so I appreciate hearing such positivity from you all.
> 
> I stole "To bed or to sleep" from season one of Outlander. Also, I'm worried that one of these scenes is OOC for everyone involved, but I really loved it? I think you'll be able to tell which one.

They arrived at Storm's End on a foggy morning in a ship captained by a jovial man from Tarth who told stories about Brienne running around in her childhood and wreaking havoc the only way a lady knight can. Not that he described Brienne as a trouble maker; far from it, in fact. She wouldn't have believed him if he had. It was more the reaction to the lady knight, and the subsequent defenses she had to mount, that the man recounted. Lord Selwyn, Brienne's father, accompanied them as well, and he only corroborated the stories with a fond smile.

The voyage from Tarth across Shipbreaker Bay was short, which Sansa was grateful for. She had decided about two days before disembarking on the island of Tarth that she didn't want to set foot on a ship for at least a few weeks. She wanted to be able to breathe in air that wasn't colored with salt and eat unsalted meat and fresh fruit.

Arya waited for them at the lone dock with another woman. Her sister barely acknowledged her and Tyrion, and instead launched herself into Jon's arms. They spoke to each other in low tones, so the other woman turned to them and introduced herself as Mya, Gendry's sister. Sansa exchanged a glance with Tyrion to see if he'd known this information, and his shrug made it clear he did not. It was only once she got a closer look at the girl did she realize they'd met before.

"You're from the Vale; you used to help people get up to the Eyrie," she said, and Mya nodded.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, your graces, and under much happier circumstances."

"You're one of Robert's bastards?" Tyrion asked.

"He and Father were fostered at the Vale as children," Arya said, like this explained everything. She and Jon had rejoined them as Alran and the two other Queensguard on the trip unloaded their things.

"How did you come to Storm's End?" Tyrion added.

"I received a letter from the king announcing my legitimization and that I was granted a home in Storm's End if I desired one. Her grace's cousin told me I should go, and I have not regretted it."

They returned to the keep itself in time for lunch. While the high table in Winterfell only sat guests around the back of it, Gendry had clearly organized his table so that everyone sat all the way around it. As the Lord of Storm's End, he sat at one end of the table, and as Queen in the North, she was at the other. It was only family; she had Tyrion on one side of her and Arya on the other. Gendry's half-brother Edric sat next to Arya. Tyrion knew of him from when he'd been a ward of Renly's prior to the War of the Five Kings. Upon fleeing King's Landing with Loras, he'd shipped Edric off to Essos for his own safety. They'd rarely been at court at the same times. The two spent time conversing about the boy's travels through Essos and the cultures he'd encountered. Tyrion even tried speaking some Valyrian with him, which caused laughter so loud that Edric got some looks for it from those at other tables. Sansa herself spoke no Valyrian, but the translations Edric provided her through wheezes made her giggle, too.

On Gendry's right sat Bella. She was from the Riverlands and her mother still lived there, but she didn't offer much further information. It was clear to Sansa that Gendry got along much better with her than the other two; there was a familiarity there she didn't expect. She'd cast a look at Arya, wondering if her sister appeared at all jealous. Arya seemed to know exactly what she was searching for.

"We met Bella, briefly, when we were with the Brotherhood. She tried to get Gendry to fuck her," Arya said far too blithely, and Sansa's eyes widened. "Don't be stupid; it's not like they knew."

"Perhaps they should have," she muttered, looking at all four of them with their hair the same shade of black. Gendry and Mya both had the same blue eyes, while Edric's were a darker shade, and Bella's brown. Mya was really the only one who could you say with full certainty mirrored her mother in any way; the other two looked so like Gendry, with square jaws and broad shoulders. Bella even had the same lines in her forehead that crinkled when she smiled.

Jon had been placed next to Gendry on the left, then Mya between him and Tyrion. She'd been surprised enough to see Arya sitting next to her and not Jon, especially since it violated the male-female rule usually employed at Winterfell, but she was even more surprised at the ease with which Jon seemed to converse with Mya and Bella. Gendry, too, but it was really the women driving the conversation at their half of the table. Tyrion noticed it, too.

* * *

Bran's contingent arrived the next day, including him, Brienne, and Davos, who embraced Gendry like a father. Sansa was introduced to his wife Marya, who reminded her so much of her own mother it was almost painful. The woman had clearly met Arya before, since Arya's complaint about being addressed as 'milady' by one of the servants was only met with an eye roll from the older woman.

The following days saw several grand arrivals. She barely recognized the names of most of the Storm Lords, and was surprised to see both her Uncle Edmure and his family and her cousin Robin in attendance. Yara did not attend, but Tyrion's regent cousin did.

"Did you know Arya's wedding was going to be a state function?" she found herself asking Tyrion at dinner the night before the wedding, with the final lords having arrived that afternoon. The hall was fit to burst with tables, and Gendry's table had been rearranged to face out like she was used to. She sat between him and her husband, with Arya and Bran on Gendry's other side. The high table was again delegated to family, though Edric had elected to sit below with those he knew from his childhood.

"I suspected," Tyrion replied. "He is a Lord Paramount, after all."

"I'm sure both of them would prefer something simple in a godswood. This feels like almost as many people as attended our wedding."

"Yes, well, you had to be walked down the aisle by Joffrey and marry a man whom you barely knew. Jon is giving Arya away, and I think we can both agree that over the past week it's been made clear to us just how devoted they are to each other."

It was true. She'd seen Arya and Gendry riding and sparring together. She sat in the gallery during petitions when they'd heard them, together, out of sheer curiosity, and Arya had even helped provide insight. He looked at her sister like she hung the moon, and she looked at him like a woman dying of thirst would look at water. She envied them, so sure of themselves, but she wasn't about to tell her husband that.

"Yes, we can."

Soon, the hall cleared and she and Tyrion walked up the tower to their chambers, which were mercifully on a lower floor than perhaps tradition mandated, but Bran had to be on a low level anyways, so it wasn't disrespectful for them to do the same with Sansa, and it spared Tyrion the climb. He never complained, but there were days at Winterfell when she could hear his bones pop as he climbed in and out of bed, and when she watched him do more work or reading from the bed than others. They walked in companionable silence, but once they were in the rooms, she couldn't resist circling back to their earlier conversation.

"I'm still having trouble believing she's actually getting married tomorrow," she said with a sigh, shutting the door firmly behind them. "It feels like just yesterday she was getting underfoot and launching food at the royal family, and swearing to never become a lady of a great house."

"Ah, yes, I remember the food launching. Well, hearing complaints about it. I believe I was out talking with Jon at the time."

Tyrion undid his doublet so he was clad in just his undershirt, and Sansa had to resist the urge to blush. They had been living together for almost six months, and sure, several weeks of it had been on the ship to Storm's End, but still. She'd seen him undress before; there'd been no screen in their quarters on the ship.

"I wish I'd gotten to know Gendry better. I didn't talk to him much when he was at Winterfell. I didn't even realize Arya knew him until I watched them hug before she boarded her ship to Essos."

"I had an inkling after the battle. She sort of stumbled into his arms when she made it back to the keep. I think you were distracted by Theon's body being brought in," he said as he climbed up onto the bed, and she nodded. She truly didn't remember much that had happened between getting out of the crypts and burning all the bodies the next morning.

"Are you going to bed?" she asked, and he shook his head, nodding towards the book on his bedside table. She rolled her eyes at him, and he made an affronted scoff.

"It's quite interesting!"

"Tyrion, you _lived_ it!"

"Not all of it," he protested, weakly, and she laughed as she sat beside him on the bed. At Tyrion's request, Davos had brought one of the copies of _A Song of Ice and Fire_ from King's Landing, ostensibly for the library at Winterfell but it was all for her husband. He'd been obsessed with it for almost a week now, angrily muttering and reading passages aloud to her that he found particularly infuriating. She had some correspondence to read and some hemming to finish on Arya's maiden cloak, and while she could do it tomorrow after the wedding breakfast but before she had to get Arya ready, she wanted to get it done sooner rather than later.

But she could spend a little time with her husband first.

"What's happening?" she asked and nestled against him. He didn't wrap an arm around her, in order to hold the book easier.

"Well, I've reached Blackwater, but somehow I don't even come up when I commanded the blasted defense," he said, pouting more than she thought a grown man could. He started to open the book, then stopped. "You know, I have to ask. The night of the battle, were you really praying for my safe return? I've never been able to figure out if you were aware Joffrey was behind you when you compared it to his return, or if you really didn't care about my life."

"I cared," she said, cupping his face, and gingerly tracing the scar that cut it. "You were kind to me, even then. You were one of the first to express sympathy for me after my father's death. You protected me in the throne room, and worried about me after the riot. I cared. I still do."

Their lips were only centimeters apart, book abandoned on his lap, but were stopped by a loud banging sounded from the door. Tyrion dropped his head against her shoulder with a groan, pressing a kiss along her collarbone that made her shiver even as she pushed herself away to go answer the door. She hadn't begun to change yet, so she was the one most decently dressed for whatever this interruption was.

She did not expect to find Arya, Jonelle, and Gendry's two half-sisters on her doorstep, giggling like young maidens and clutching flagons of wine in their hands. Jonelle's eyes lit up at the sight of her.

"Sansa! Come join us!" she said.

"What?"

"Mya says it's a tradition, in the Vale, at least, for the men to go out the night before the wedding, and we thought, why couldn't we do that?" Bella replied, pointing to Mya as she did so. The girl in question nodded.

"And you want me to join you?" Sansa asked. She'd been cordial with the two Baratheons at meals, and Bella had invited her to a sewing circle earlier where they worked on the Baratheon cloak for Gendry to wear tomorrow, but that had truly been the limit to their interaction. And while she knew that Arya and Jonelle had become close in the weeks before Arya had left for Storm's End, she had been surprised that the woman had been invited to the wedding, much less whatever this night of drinking was.

"Come on, Sansa! Live a little!" Arya, clearly already into her cups based on the dopey smile on her face, said. How long had it been since dinner?

Before Sansa could say anything, Mya was pulling her out of the room and running off down the hall. She could hear Tyrion's laugh echoing behind her, and she glanced back, hoping to see him watching her from the doorway, but he wasn't there, and instead she wound up tripping. She, Mya, Arya, and Jonelle all fell in a pile on the ground and just barely managed to avoid spilling wine all down the corridor. The laughter she let out was more from surprise than genuine amusement, and she figured theirs was more from wine than the same, but it felt good. They turned onto their backs as an amused Bella stared down at them, rolling her eyes before helping them all to their feet.

"Should we go outside?" Bella asked.

"Isn't it about to storm?" Jonelle said, glancing out the window at the end of the hall. The sky did look rather dark, but the sun had set at least an hour ago, so it could have been that more than anything.

"It's always about to storm," Bella replied, and she and Mya lead them down the staircase and out into the courtyard. Mya and Arya, both in breeches, dropped onto the ground in front of a large tree, which was flanked by two benches, one facing the keep and one facing the cliffs. Jonelle and Bella took that one, while Sansa settled herself on the other, staring up at the tower of Storm's End, not much more than a tall shadow in the darkness. Mya, closest to her, passed her the flagon of wine she'd been holding onto for dear life ever since their fall.

"Drink, your grace," she said, and, with everyone's eyes on her, Sansa did exactly that. Jonelle even cheered for her.

"I think, if you're trying to get me drunk, 'Sansa' will suffice," she said as she handed the flagon back. Mya smiled, her teeth illuminated by the moonlight.

"So, _Sansa_ , you must have marital advice to impart on Arya. What will she experience tomorrow night?" Bella asked with a wiggle of her eyebrows. Arya slapped her leg before Sansa had even fully processed the words.

"Gendry and I are well-experienced in that regard, thank you."

"What?" Sansa said.

"I didn't want to die a virgin," Arya said, with such contempt on the final word that Jonelle rolled her eyes.

"Being a virgin isn't a crime."

"You're a virgin?" Mya asked, and Jonelle nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'm expected to be, as a noble lady. Not for lack of trying, though," she said, turning to Sansa, "Truly, Sansa, the men in your service are fit, but dense."

"I wouldn't know," she said, and Bella legitimately squealed.

"That's so romantic, that you only have eyes for your husband. Arya told me a bit about Tyrion before you all arrived. He sounds like quite the gentleman."

"He is." She could feel herself flush, but she hoped it was dark enough that no one would notice.

"Is he truly as good in bed as the rumors say?" Bella continued. "Is he… proportionate?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's a small man. Is his cock-"

"I'm not drunk enough to talk about this," she said, hoping that would put an end to the questioning, but both Mya and Jonelle held out their flagons to her in perfect synchronization.

"Come on, Sansa. I'll talk all about my times with Gendry."

"And as your sister, I don't want to hear it!"

Arya shrugged, and took Mya's flagon, and Jonelle shook hers until Sansa took it.

"We don't have to talk about it," Jonelle added once Sansa had lowered it from her lips, but she didn't return it just yet. "I know it can be a sensitive topic."

"It shouldn't have to be. Sex can be so many things. Love, intimacy, joy. But it can also be sadness, and anger. And, perhaps most dangerously of all, power. There are too many men in this world who use it as a way to control and subjugate women.

"I became a whore because I didn't have any choice in the matter. But it's also a way to control your own desires, to take the power so often denied to us. It can be the most brutal or the most beautiful thing," Bella mused, pulling the other flagon from Arya's hands. The flagon in her own hands suddenly felt heavy, and she gave it back to Jonelle quickly, like it could burn her.

"Yes, it can," she said quietly. She'd never been drunk before, so she had no idea if she'd had enough wine to loosen her lips the way she'd seen it happen to others, but she felt like she had to be if she was freely sharing such sentiments, especially with people she barely knew.

Shockingly, Mya placed her hand on Sansa's knee and nodded in agreement, holding it there a second before she moved it.

"Oh!" Bella said, covering her mouth. "I'm so sorry, I didn't-"

"I know. You wouldn't have known. It isn't exactly common knowledge, outside the North."

"No one should have to go through that. Ever," Bella said.

"I would think the same about becoming a whore," Jonelle said, and she shrugged.

"Some of the women there did it because they liked it. Others were trapped. Some women did it to feed their children. Everyone's story is different. My mother worked there before me; I had nowhere else to go. It never seemed strange or vulgar to me the way it might to you."

"Imagine if there was some sort of haven for women who were being raped or abused by their husbands, or their pimps, or maybe even their parents. A place they could go that would protect them, give them food and shelter, help them find work. How many lives would something like that save?" Mya mused, and Sansa and Arya locked eyes. They could create that sort of thing. A shelter from the storm.

"That's brilliant, Mya!" Arya said, elbowing her. "I'll talk to Gendry about it first thing."

"And I'll discuss it with my council. It would have to be discreet, of course. The sort of thing that you want the people who need it to find, but not the ones causing the damage."

"Did I just create a law?" Mya asked, looking back and forth between the two Stark sisters.

"Maybe Sam's idea about letting the people decide wasn't a horrible idea after all," Sansa said. Only Arya had any sort of reaction, being the only one of them there that day, which was to huff and roll her eyes.

She didn't know how long they were out there before the rain started. Mya knew a game where they had sixty seconds to ask as many questions of one person as they could, and they had to drink for every question they didn't answer. Sansa drank much more than she spoke, but she got revenge by teaching them Tyrion's guessing game, and she was by far the best at it. Bella was terrible, and slurring her words by the time the clouds opened up, not that Sansa was doing much better. Her head felt light and it was becoming difficult to see clearly, but she was sure that was just because some clouds had infringed upon the moon.

It took some convincing, but she got everyone to dance with her in the rain, even though she felt shaky on her feet. She and Bella both fell down and got all muddy this time, but their laughter was entirely genuine. Mya, Arya, and Jonelle helped the two of them up and the five of them began a slow trek inside, arms all wrapped around each other.

A guard by the door rushed to meet them once they were in sight, and he and Mya helped Bella to her quarters as she began to loudly sing "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," which was making Sansa laugh even though she wasn't quite sure why. Jonelle, who was tall, and Arya, who was not, were then stuck escorting her, and she sort of flopped herself over Arya's head in order to get the height she needed to stay upright.

By the time they reached her chambers, she was feeling quite good. Arya strong armed her way in, and she watched as Tyrion jumped from the spot where he'd been reading on the bed at the bang of wood against stone. He bit his lip at the sight of them, but she thought he might be smiling. She was still having trouble seeing, even inside in the candlelight.

"Milady, what have you done with my wife?"

"Got her drunk, milord," Jonelle said quite cheerfully.

"No apologies," Arya added, and this time he laughed.

"I'm no' drunk!" Sansa said, but her tongue didn't quite seem to do what she wanted it to, and this made Tyrion laugh again.

"Let's get you out of those wet clothes, my dear," he said, and Arya and Jonelle led her over to the vanity table, though they didn't sit her down. Jonelle made quick work of her hair as Arya undid Sansa's clothes, and Tyrion rooted around in their things for a nightdress.

"Jonelle, you're so smart. I'm so happy you're my Hand," Sansa said with a sigh, grinning at her in the mirror as she worked on a braid. Arya made her shimmy out of her skirts, cursing at the sheer amount of layers and ties in a way that made Sansa giggle. "And Arya! I'm so happy you came home. I missed you so much. I used to be so awful to you, but I'm glad we're sisters now. And you're going to be such a good lady." Arya's hands stilled for a moment, but then she resumed her work until Sansa stood in just a slip.

"Thank you, ladies; I have it from here," Tyrion said. Jonelle curtsied to him before she left, but Arya stood there in silence for a moment before she followed her out. Sansa turned to face Tyrion, grinning down at him. "Do you want your nightdress, or is your slip alright?"

"Everything's alright. I'm with you."

She tried to sink gracefully to her knees, but she fell a little bit, hitting the stone with a bang that had Tyrion rushing towards her. She giggled and pulled him close, kissing him. She loved kissing him. She pulled on his lip with her teeth the way she learned he'd liked and he moaned. She started to trail the tip of her tongue across his, hoping he would grant her access, but instead he pulled back from her.

"I think it's time for us to go to bed."

"To bed or to sleep?" she said, pressing a kiss to his jaw, and then slowly trailing a line down his neck. He pushed her away again, but he was smiling.

"To sleep," he said, and he pressed a kiss to her crown before helping her stand and then climb into bed, leaving her in her slip and abandoning the night dress back on top of her trunk. She watched as he moved his book over to the vanity, then locked the door, then blew out the candles and climbed into bed.

"I think I could fall in love with you," she sighed, closing her eyes.

There was a moment of silence before he said, "Good night, Sansa," and he wrapped his arms around her.


	5. and the world opened wide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Bran asked. It was barely after sundown, so 'night' was, perhaps, a bit of a stretch.
> 
> "Arya, of the House Stark, Princess in the North and of the Six Kingdoms, Bringer of the Dawn, comes here to be wed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of my Storm's End headcanons come from various Gendrya fics, but I think the most prominent one in these chapters is probably persuade_me's fic  Butterflies . 10/10 would recommend if Gendrya is also your jam.
> 
> Also, I upped the rating, mostly because I'm paranoid, but some things are starting to work their way in that I felt warranted the shift.
> 
> Trigger warning: Non-explicit references to Ramsay's treatment of Sansa.

Waking Sansa up the next morning proved to be more of a challenge than he thought it would. For such a tall woman, it seemed she could not hold her drink.

He started by pulling the shades and letting the sunlight filter in, though it was the Stormlands, and overcast was their version of clear skies. It worked enough, though, because Sansa groaned and rolled over in bed.

"Come along, wife," he said, brushing hair out of her face.

"No," she grumbled, opening her eyes only to quickly shut them again. "I am your Queen. Leave me."

"You dragged me down the coast of Westeros for your only sister's wedding, remember?"

"Yes," she said with a huff, but she did not move. She pouted at him instead. "Will I have to do anything other than smile and clap?"

"You may be asked to dance at tonight's feast, but you will have much time to recuperate before then."

"What will you give me if I get up?"

"Do you desire something more than food, merriment, and time with your family?"

"For the pain to leave my head?"

"Well, you'll have to follow my lead and not drink quite so much in the future."

"How could you possibly like this feeling?"

"Hangovers are the price paid for the feeling of being drunk, my dear, not the other way around. Now, come along; the maidservant will be in any minute to help you dress." She groaned again, but this time sat up and put her feet on the floor.

"Don't let me do that again."

"Of course," he said, fighting to keep amusement out of his voice.

"Don't let me kill Arya, either. We are done with deaths at weddings."

The handmaiden knocked on their door then, and the two readied themselves in silence. He didn't ask how much of her night she remembered and she didn't volunteer any of it. They left for the main hall at the same time as Davos and Marya, who were staying in the room across from them. The two women chattered animatedly and Davos watched them with a smile.

Bella looked equally worse for wear when they arrived for the wedding breakfast. He and Sansa took their same seats from last night while Davos and Marya sat at a lower table. It appeared that Mya and Bella had switched, though, likely because the seat Mya now occupied was in more direct sunlight than her seat from the night before. Mya, clearly aware that he'd reached such a conclusion, winked at him.

"You'll want a hearty meal, your grace," she added, and Sansa rolled her eyes.

"If you were under my jurisdiction, I could have you arrested for… defamation, or something," his wife said primly, filling her plate with bread and meat and a couple lemon cakes. He hid his smirk by taking a sip from his goblet.

"Of course, your grace," Mya said with a smirk of her own.

The breakfast was quick, with no gift presentation. Davos led a toast to the happy couple, and Arya stood and made a toast to loved ones who could not be present. She didn't name a list, but she didn't have to.

Sansa, though, under her breath next to him, murmured, "To Mother, Father, Robb, Rickon, and Theon," before taking a sip from her drink.

After that, his wife disappeared to ready Arya. He was not entirely sure what his role was in all of this. He didn't remember helping Robert ready himself before his wedding to Cersei, while Jaime had almost certainly stood outside Cersei's door 'guarding' it. So, he decided to return to his chambers, as he saw many others do. He could read more of the book, which was currently focusing on the lead up to the Red Wedding now that it had passed Blackwater.

He had only just stepped onto the staircase when a clear voice called, "Tyrion," and he turned and bowed to his king, who nodded at him "Come. We have business to discuss."

Brienne turned his chair and set out into the back courtyard, leaving Tyrion no choice but to follow. They stopped at a tree with two benches. She set Bran's chair in front of the tree and then stepped back a few paces so they could have ostensible privacy. Bran gestured to the bench overlooking Shipbreaker Bay, and Tyrion sat, watching him expectantly.

"Ser Davos has decided to return home permanently and vacate his post as the Master of Ships."

"So soon?" Tyrion asked, but then when he thought about it, it had been almost three years since the Dragon Queen's death and the start of the new age. Sansa always spoke of the North like it was new, and it was, in a way, but more time had passed than perhaps either of them had fully realized.

He truly wasn't that surprised about Davos being the first to leave, though. The man was rarely in King's Landing, spending much of his time in the Stormlands with both his wife and Gendry, helping the young lad learn how to be a lord. All but one of the man's seven children had lived past the age of five, and that one had died at Blackwater. Despite all that, he took in those needing a father without a second thought. It would be good for him to return home.

"It is time. He is needed elsewhere, as you will be someday," Bran said, "But now we must find a replacement."

"Indeed. Who has come to you?" he asked. He thought that must be the best way to ask who would be taking over the post, since Bran surely knew who it would be already.

"Who do you think?" Bran responded, and it took everything in him not to roll his eyes.

"Lord Redwyne or Lady Yara would be an obvious choice. Perhaps Lord Mallister, from the Riverlands? The Reach is represented by both Bronn and Sam on the Council, so perhaps reaching out to Lady Yara is the best decision. Keeping the Iron Islands under your thumb will be prudent, even with your sight."

"Yes," Bran said, but it wasn't much of an answer, really, if you thought about it too much. "Our contingent will set North tomorrow. You will join us?"

"Tomorrow, your grace?" he asked in surprise. Sansa would be staying two more days past that. She was not quite as ready to leave Arya as she pretended.

"Yes. My sister will understand."

Understand, yes, but she wouldn't like it. Did most husbands come to know their wives better than their brothers, even brothers who serve as the Three-Eyed Raven?

"You will have leave to visit her in six months, if you so desire it. You are of course welcome to stay in King's Landing, but I doubt you will. Divided loyalties can be dangerous, Tyrion. You must tread lightly."

He felt a coldness wash over him. Was Bran really asking him to pick a side, so soon after taking him North?

"Yes, your grace," he replied.

* * *

Arya and Gendry married in the sept just as the sun began to set. Jon walked Arya down the aisle dressed in a garment similar to one of Sansa's riding habits. A long straight skirt flowed down around a pair of breeches, all Stark gray. It had a white bodice with a high collar along the sides, but the top of her chest was bare save for some sort of necklace that he thought had a wolf on it. The belt around her waist was black with words embroidered around the middle; he would later realize they said _Ours is the fury_.

He'd forgotten all the fuss of Southern weddings, all the prayers and boring rituals. He watched Arya smirk as Gendry cloaked her, some secret meaning between the two of them he couldn't crack. They spent the whole ceremony like that, teasing each other and sharing secrets for just the two of them. He glanced at Sansa and found her watching him, not them. He wondered if she was thinking of their own ceremony, where they'd barely looked at each other. She had a smile on her face, though; not quite one of pure happiness, but of contentment.

After the ceremony, most of the guests headed to the main hall, but Sansa tugged on his hand and nodded in the opposite direction. The immediate family, Brienne, pushing Bran's chair, Jonelle, and the Seaworths followed the bride and groom out to the godswood. It was much smaller than the one at Winterfell, with just a lone heart tree surrounded by a few other trees, and a small stone circle bordered it off.

Brienne pushed Bran so his chair sat in front of the weirwood, facing them. Gendry stood on his left and did the same. Sansa pulled Tyrion over to stand in front of them and to the right, where Brienne, Jon, and Jonelle joined them. Mya, Bella, Edric, and the Seaworths stood on the left. Arya, alone, stood in the middle of them all. He assumed this all meant Gendry and Arya were having a Northern ceremony as well, and he had to agree with Sansa; this intimacy suited the two of them much more than all the fanfare marriages in a sept required.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?" Bran asked. It was barely after sundown, so 'night' was, perhaps, a bit of a stretch.

Sansa gripped Tyrion's hand with somewhat more force than he expected, and he glanced up at her to see her standing very, very still. Realization crashed over him; this was how she and the Bolton bastard had been married. He squeezed her hand in understanding, and she looked down to him briefly before back to Arya.

"Arya, of the House Stark, Princess in the North and of the Six Kingdoms, Bringer of the Dawn, comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?" Arya asked, standing straight and tall, much more like the warrior he remembered than the girl he'd seen walk into the sept that day.

"Gendry, of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Who gives her?"

"She gives herself, with the blessing of her brothers and sister," Arya replied, and Tyrion smiled; he doubted that was the traditional response.

"Arya, will you take this man?" Bran asked.

"I take this man," she said, and she stepped forward and grasped Gendry's hand. He smiled at her just like he had in the sept, full of love and desire and maybe even awe, and the two, still grasping hands, kneeled before the tree. Jon, Bran, Jonelle, and Sansa all immediately inclined their heads, and he watched as most of the others followed suit, though Edric, like him, kept his head up. He wondered if the boy had converted to R'hllor or some other Essosi religion in his time away, and he was so devoted to the point that he couldn't bring himself to even pretend to pray to the Old Gods. Tyrion himself did not really believe in any gods, even after witnessing all the Lord of Light did, but he was more focused on the vice grip Sansa was continuing to give his hand.

Arya and Gendry stood, and she undid the Stark cloak Sansa had made and wrapped it over Gendry's Baratheon cloak. He hadn't even noticed the boy was back in his own again, and he smiled. His goodsister had clearly made some concessions for the sept ceremony.

Bella started up the applause, and the group was all smiles and congratulations as they walked back to the keep. Sansa offered to take the cloaks up to their chambers, and Arya agreed, elbowing Gendry so he would hand them over.

She didn't ask him to, but Tyrion followed her up the steps to Gendry's chambers anyways. He opened to the door for her, and she smiled thinly at him. The room had a bench carved into the stone underneath one of the windows, and she laid the cloaks down there. When she turned back towards him, he noticed the tremors in her hands and he strode forward quickly, sitting her down on the bench next to the cloaks.

"I didn't think it was going to affect me like that," she whispered, watching her hands as they continued to shake. He kissed each hand, trying to bring her back to him. Her eyes looked vacant, like she wasn't quite all there. "I've told myself for so long that I couldn't have known. But I should have. I think I was so blinded by my hatred for Theon that I didn't think about what had happened to him. What had been done to him. And the way he looked at me in the godswood. I thought maybe it was just desire, but it wasn't. Or, at least, not desire for _me,_ but what he could do for me. I told him that his memory would disappear, but it won't, will it? He'll be in that bloody book. And even if he wasn't, I'll always carry it with me."

"Yes, you will," he agreed, "But you'll think about it less and less. You're so unbelievably strong, Sansa; you have been for as long as I have known you, even when you think you weren't. Your resilience is unparalleled." She nodded, and looked back to him. Color had returned to her skin and her eyes were brighter, and he felt himself calm slightly.

"I've been telling myself for so long that being married would be a hindrance, that I couldn't be strong if I was, but Arya told me shortly before you arrived that she'd thought that, too, and was starting to think we'd been taught all wrong. So she told me to talk to you. I'm really glad she did. I meant what I said last night. I think I could fall in love with you. Maybe I already am. I don't know if I'm ready for love yet, but you are kind and gentle and true, all the things my father wanted for me. What I want for myself."

"I feel the same," he said. He hadn't been sure she would remember her drunken musings, and hadn't wanted to push the issue. Feeling bold, he leaned forward and kissed her, hard and long and injecting every emotion he felt for her into it. She responded just as eagerly, easily moving her lips against his and exploring his mouth with her tongue.

He pulled away first for breath and found her staring at him in a way he couldn't quite follow. It reminded him of how she sometimes looked when reading reports or when talking proposals with him, like she was doing sums in her mind.

"We should go to the feast, my dear," he said, and she nodded, standing.

The feast was in full swing when they arrived, with Gendry and Arya spinning around the floor with some of the other lords. Sansa laughed at the sight, and he couldn't blame her; having seen Arya's water dancing in the yards of Winterfell, he knew she was graceful, but Gendry was nowhere near it. It seemed rather like his goodsister was leading her husband through the steps than the other way around. Almost immediately, Lord Edmure invited Sansa to dance, and she gracefully took the floor with her uncle as Tyrion made his way up to the dais and made them both a plate of food for when she returned.

She danced with several more partners as the night wore on- her cousin Robin, Jon, Edric, some of the Stormlords- but just as the pigeon pie was to be cut she returned to him, flushed and smiling, and kissed him.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, and she nodded, but then she took his hand with a smile.

"But now I am content to spend time with you and my family," she said, "But mostly you."

He still had trouble believing this lovely young woman could want to do _anything_ with him. He couldn't dance with her like that, spin her around and hold her close. Why would she want someone like him?

As if she could sense his thoughts, she leaned in and kissed him again. They spoke with lords and ladies who came to speak with them, they made fun of the drunken antics of Lord Buckler, they held hands under the table, and Tyrion couldn't stop staring at his wife, the way the torchlight caught her hair and the way she smiled at her sister and Gendry.

The calls for a bedding ceremony were quickly squashed by Gendry, who yelled, "Has everyone forgotten that she killed the Night King?" Such an announcement seemed to scare most of the men as to what Arya would do to them should they attempt to undress her, but the happy couple took it as their cue anyway, and exited the hall to many jeers and shouts.

"You know," Sansa said, and she began to run her fingers up his arm, "Theirs doesn't have to be the only bedding tonight."

He looked at her, his heartbeat pounding in his ribcage. He looked for traces of drink in her eyes but didn't find any, as he knew he would. He looked at the faint blush on her cheeks.

"Sansa-"

"My first night in our chambers, after I was first crowned, I slept in the solar because I couldn't stop thinking of what he'd done to me in that room. The second night, I told myself that I was braver than he would ever be, and I could sleep in my own bed without fear. I battled nightmares for weeks but I overcame them. I won't let him own me anymore. I trust you. I care for you. Let your watch end, Tyrion."

"Are you truly ready, or just ready to be free of him?" were the only words he trusted himself to say.

"Aren't they the same thing?"

"I don't think so."

"Then I'm ready. Truly ready."

He found no trace of dishonesty in her expression, and not so much fear as perhaps a touch of anxiety, for no matter how ready she was, he doubted she would not be able to erase that.

He swallowed thickly, then said, "Then I will be your Knight of Flowers."

"No. Be Tyrion. And I'll be Sansa. Just two people coming together, with no expectations."

Oh, he had expectations. Not of her, though; of him. He wanted her to never have to associate coupling with Ramsay Bolton ever again.

Bella winked at them as they slipped out of the hall, but other than that they made it out undetected. They kissed and kissed and kissed. She was hesitant, despite all her bravado in the hall. He went more gently than he ever had before, asked questions when he normally just gestured, waited for a verbal yes when a nod usually sufficed. Every gasp and moan made him bolder. He brought her over the edge with just his fingers and he could tell from the look on her face that not only had anyone ever fingered her before, but that she'd never felt that way before. It gave him more satisfaction than perhaps it should have that he would be the only one to ever have her this way. He held back until she'd crashed a second time before pulling out of her, spilling his seed into his hand, watching her face for any sign of demon or memory, but there was none.

After they'd tidied themselves, they lay side by side in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. They didn't lie together like they often did, merely side by side. He waited for her to move, to say something, and almost lost himself in memories of the few times he'd braved the bed over the settee in King's Landing. Even that first night in Winterfell, she'd turned herself into him. Did she regret what they had done? If she didn't want to do it again, he would respect her. He'd done it before, after all. He could do it again.

She slipped her hand into his, interlacing their fingers, and he turned his head to look at her. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and he wanted to pull away, thinking he'd stepped too far, but then she smiled.

"Thank you," she whispered, and she kissed him before letting go of his hand. She still didn't curl up against him, merely turned and pulled her arms against her and shut her eyes. He watched her for a long time, wondering what in the Seven hells he'd done that led him here, with Sansa Stark's wetness still clinging to his hands and a Hand of the King badge pinned to his discarded doublet.

If this was repenting, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Smut is NOT my forte, so that's gonna be about as explicit as things get.
> 
> Arya's dress is inspired by one of Snow White's  warrior outfits , specifically the "Lady of the Lake" episode, with some tweaks.


	6. how can anyone sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nights like this were when she missed Tyrion the most, the nights when all she could do was worry over who were truly her allies and who would turncloak should anything happen. The nights she wanted someone to hold her and tell her everything would be alright, that she was doing the right thing for her kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could've been entitled: "Me? Projecting onto Sansa Stark? It's more likely than you think" but sadly that's not a lyric in The Great Comet. If anything feels OOC that's why! I'm still very happy with the chapter, though; I think it's one of my favorites.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Ned's beheading. More graphic than most scenes in this fic, but if you made it through the Red Wedding I don't think it's nearly as bad as that? You can skip the section in present tense, which starts with "Sansa finds herself staring out over a shouting crowd," and jump straight to the section after without missing anything.

Sansa spent entirely too much of the journey back to Winterfell with her mind replaying her night (And morning) with her husband.

She hadn't even _known_ that she could take the same pleasure from the act that a man could. She'd heard vague comments on the subject her entire life, mostly from Margaery and now Bella, but all of her actual schooling from Septa Mordane had been in regards to pregnancy.

She had no idea if she even could get pregnant. Ramsay's seed had never taken root, as far as she was aware; Septa Mordane said that in the early weeks, a woman could lose a babe she didn't even know she had. Plus, her current husband had been well known for whoring prior to their marriage and, as far as she knew, there were no bastards to speak of. Her council would surely love that, if she went and married a Southerner, giving them all a headache in the process, only for them both to be barren.

The North's independence was perhaps too strong of a word, after all. They wouldn't make it through winter without the Reach. Maesters, septons, and septas still trained in Oldtown or King's Landing. Both her husband and her heir were rulers of their own lands in the Six Kingdoms. She'd had no choice but to name Arya her temporary successor, and to leave Bran out of the succession entirely, lest the North fall back into the hands of the Six Kingdoms. Now that Arya was married, words that still felt odd to say aloud, the pressure would truly mount for an heir for the North.

She would get a month or so before it started in earnest. For all her council knew, she and Tyrion had laid together every night since his arrival moons ago, and those who weren't idiots knew it took a few weeks for the symptoms of pregnancy to present themselves, and even then women were likely to wait a few moons before saying anything. Once they realized she wasn't, the comments would start, innocent at first, until just before Tyrion's arrival they would become grave, serious, and blatant. She could already hear Lord Glover's voice, and she hated that he would be right.

Sansa flopped back against the pillow behind her, staring up at the wooden ceiling of her room in Winterfell. It was her first night back without him, and she missed him somehow more in this room than she did on the cabin on the boat or on the trek from White Harbor. If she ever did bear children, she was going to make one thing very clear to them: Life is not like the songs, sweetlings. It takes much more work.

* * *

Dear Tyrion,

I am safely returned to Winterfell. Lord Glover did not make any poor decisions while I was gone, thankfully. It is strange to be alone in our chambers again, and I miss Arya more than I did when she first left for Storm's End. Jon is staying for a few days, and I spoke to him about arranging a pardon with Bran only to learn that he was offered one mere weeks after his first banishment and he turned it down. I think you are right about him needing time.

Your wife,

Sansa

P.S. Just out of sheer curiosity, does anyone read your scrolls when they arrive? I've instructed Maester Wolkan to not peek at any correspondence marked with the Hand's seal.

* * *

_Dear Sansa,_

_My letters are always given to me with the sender's seal unbroken. One of the benefits to our councils forgoing Masters of Whispers._

_Why?_

_Your bewildered husband,_

_Tyrion_

_P.S. That is good about Lord Glover. I can still speak to Bran about Jon, if you'd like._

_P.P.S. Yara has turned down our offer to join the Small Council. I fear the Iron Islands might attempt to go the way of the North._

* * *

Dear my bewildered husband,

With us having only spent one night and one morning together before your return to King's Landing, I thought there might perhaps be a way to continue such activities until you return to my bed. It may be unconventional, but I will try if you will.

I began speaking to my small council about this absolutely brilliant idea Mya had; I don't think I had time to tell you about it, since your silver tongue was rather occupied. She asked what it would be like if there was some sort of shelter, almost, for women being raped or abused by family or their husbands or brothel owners to seek out a new start. I believe Arya and Gendry will be embarking on a similar program in the Stormlands; you are welcome to encourage Bran to do the same in the Crownlands, if not the whole Six Kingdoms. Jonelle is really the only one as excited by the prospect as I am, and only Lord Magnar seems truly negative towards it. I suppose it is due to his Skagosi upbringing. Truly it's a wonder he's so good with numbers, based on all the tales Old Nan used to spin about the Skagosi.

Would it really be so bad if the Iron Islands followed us? They are much different from the other kingdoms in similar ways that the North is, and that's why I desired it become independent. I know their navy is important, but the Iron Fleet has always been more under the jurisdiction of the Salt Throne than the Iron one, even if the Iron Throne exists no more. Even then, though, Yara might not want to spend so much time away from her home. She has been fighting for it for quite a long time, and she is the only Greyjoy left. Bad things seemed to happen to them when they leave their home, the same way it does when my family travels south.

Not that I don't think Bran and Arya aren't safe. I sleep easier at night knowing they are. I just…. I dreamed so long of home, and that meant all my family under one roof. I know it's not possible, and I'm starting to adjust, I promise.

I do miss you very much. Jon, who left yesterday, showed me the family records book he said he showed you, and we had a good cry as we recorded the deaths of my mother, Robb, his wife, their child, and Rickon. I added in Lyanna and Rhaegar's marriage as well as Robb and his wife's, but I stopped before adding ours because I didn't know which year to write, or if I should add my other one. It was never truly valid, I suppose, considering Baelish never annulled ours like he claimed, but it is part of the Stark history.

I'm rambling; I know. Can you tell I have boring reports to read? You were always so good at distracting me from them. I'm glad we've added another tactic in that regard.

Your procrastinating, randy wife,

Sansa

* * *

_Dear my randy wife,_

_I can't imagine you writing such a letter, but I would be delighted to see you try._

_Such an establishment would be interesting. I must confess I've never really thought about it before. I mentioned it to Bran and all he did was hum; fuck knows what that means. After spending so many months with you in which we actually truly talked about matters facing your kingdom, I find speaking to Bran tiresome, as he either knows what we will decide, or offers opinions of few words. I will admit that he is good with the smallfolk, even though they find him just as odd as the highborns do. His heart is almost as big as yours. Almost._

_My greatest fear about the Iron Islands becoming independent is them laying siege to the rest of us, the Riverlands in particular. There is no love between them and the Mallisters, whom we thought of offering the Master of Ships position to, but after the Ironborn turned it down, I think we have no choice but to turn to the Redwynes, which will leave an abundance of Reachmen on the small council, but not much can be done about it considering the size of the Redwyne fleet in comparison to the rest of Westeros._

_Put our marriage in for this year, since it is the year it was finally consummated, and don't let his name touch your book. You told him his name and house would disappear. As the victor, you get to control the narrative, so make it disappear. Don't forget to add your sister's marriage as well. Then we can work on marrying off your brother. We may no longer be passing the crown down the bloodline, but I think a queen would do him good. Maybe he would smile more. I certainly do when I think of you._

_I will be back with you before you know it; I promise. Bran offered me a leave of absence after six months of service, which I am almost halfway through. I don't know how long it will be, but I plan to take it._

_And don't doubt your own talents of distraction, wife. If you're going to insist on such letters, I expect a quite randy one about all the ways I would be driving you to distraction if I were there._

_Your awaiting husband,_

_Tyrion_

* * *

Dear my awaiting husband,

Is that a challenge?

* * *

Even after several years, the North had yet to fully recover from the War for the Dawn and the New Targaryean Conquest. Several keeps still sat empty as no one knew what to do with them- the Dreadfort and Karhold, most worryingly. It had been a small miracle to find Alysanne Mormont alive if not entirely well, securing Bear Island, and Jeyne Umber had only been spared from the massacre at Last Hearth because she'd been at Winterfell. After her nephew Ned had sworn Jon fealty following the Battle of the Bastards, she was one of the only members of his retinue to not return to their home. At the time, it had been a subject of debate if the woman, six and twenty and still unmarried, was attempting to woo Jon or merely one of the other Northern lords, but it spared her life regardless.

Sansa had been tempted to finally grant the justice on the Umber family Jon had denied her when he'd been king, but the woman lost her entire family, a feeling Sansa herself knew all too well. Plus, in the crypts at the Battle of Winterfell, Jeyne had fought as fiercely as anyone else, and even shielded Gilly and Little Sam. Sansa hadn't had it in her, then, and sent the woman off to Last Hearth with a steely reminder that the North remembers, and if House Umber stepped out of line again, she would swing the sword herself. People had begun to call her the Red Wolf for a reason, after all.

Her hold on Skagos was shaky as always, even with Lord Magnar on the small council. She knew that her move with Tyrion had been bold, even reckless. Asking her people, especially those who had sent family south with Robb and lost them, to accept her Lannister husband took more trust than perhaps she'd truly earned, not to mention the slight on the Northern lords already angling for her hand.

She didn't regret it at all, but it meant her steps were a little more cautious than she felt they should be at this point in her reign. It wasn't quite so with her council, those who had watched the two of them in the months he'd been at Winterfell, but the rest of her lords and ladies weren't necessarily as trusting.

The night Arya returned from her voyage stuck in her mind. Her skin was darker, she herself older still than Sansa ever expected to see her, and Arya's eyes shone as she told Sansa tales of the faraway lands of Essos. Tyrion had written little of them to her, in passing while discussing trade and taxes, but they sounded less foreign in Arya's stories than they had in his letters. Her sister had paused in one of her tales to drink, and Sansa had seized the moment to ask if she would join her small council as her Master of Whispers.

Arya had laughed at her.

She'd let Sansa explain her reasoning, of course, though they both knew exactly why she wanted her sister to do it: Arya's ability to wear faces, the way she'd tricked Baelish, the fact that, besides Artya, there was only one other person in the world Sansa trusted to protect her and Brienne served her brother instead, in a position the knight could never refuse, not even for Sansa. Arya had stared at her for a long time, and Sansa wondered so desperately to this day what her sister had seen in her face.

"Gendry proposed to me, the night he was legitimized. I met him in King's Landing the day Father died. We traveled together. He figured out first that I was a girl. He made me feel things I'd never felt before, even after we were reunited here. He asked me to be his lady, and I said no. I ran away across the world. I don't regret it. I regret hurting him, and leaving you alone, but I don't regret going. I had something to live for. Sandor- the Hound, I traveled with him, too, you know, even though I'd put him on my list- he didn't want me to become like him. I don't think he realized I already was. It's always been something for so long- finish my list, come home, kill the White Walkers, discover the world. One day I woke up in Essos and it felt like it did the first time I decided to come home. I just couldn't be there anymore. But this time I didn't have a next step, really. 'Go home' didn't encompass anything.

"There are women in Essos like me, who want revenge and who can fight and want to be more. And there are women in Essos like you, or how you used to be, anyway, content to cook and clean and mind their families. And there are women in Essos who do both, or neither. I met them all, saw them all, and something told me that I could have that, if I wanted it. A real home, not just an idea of one. I haven't had that in so long. Winterfell doesn't even feel quite like it, anymore. I want to have a life."

Sansa remembered watching her sister take a deep, shuddering breath, before she had murmured, "And if I do this for you, I don't think I'll have one again."

That was why she'd sent her sister to Storm's End. Because Arya was right. Her life would have become consumed with protecting Sansa to the point where she wouldn't get her own. Varys, Sansa remembered from her days in the Red Keep, always had somewhere to be, someone to meet with, information to uncover, pieces to move. Petyr was much the same, and he had other work to do. Just because she expected it of Arya didn't mean she had to do it. Why else would she bring up all those women in Essos, why else would she bring up Gendry and the life he'd asked her to embark on? Her sister wanted stability and roots and the chance to really live, so Sansa gave it to her. She didn't let anyone else shoulder the weight she had to bear.

Jonelle tried, though; she tried so hard. Cley Cerwyn had written to Sansa and asked her to consider Jonelle for a position on the council, and after five minutes of conversation with the woman she'd offered her the Hand position. Jonelle was smart and sharp and not afraid to go toe-to-toe with anyone, but she was also kind and fiercely protective of her people. She knew a bit about everything and everyone; she knew perhaps more about Sansa than anyone else in Winterfell right now, and she wasn't even in Winterfell at the moment, but home dealing with the family who thought her time on the council should be over and she should return home to marry.

If Sansa had a Master of Whispers, she might not need to step so lightly, since she'd know exactly what her people thought of Tyrion, but she didn't trust anyone else enough to protect her. She knew Jonelle and Alran were doing their best to field all the information they could because she couldn't, and that made her certain she'd picked the right people as her Hand and Lord Commander.

Nights like this were when she missed Tyrion the most, the nights when all she could do was worry over who were truly her allies and who would turncloak should anything happen. The nights she wanted someone to hold her and tell her everything would be alright, that she was doing the right thing for her kingdom. Perhaps it was because she'd been yanked away from her mother so young, or because she'd yet to be in love, but sometimes she just wanted to be held and reassured and she felt so weak admitting it. It was why she wanted to be Queen in the North so badly, why she'd bartered for the independence that sometimes felt like more of a joke than a reality; a crown on her head, people chanting for her in the hall, memories she could look back on and say _They chose me, they follow me, they trust me_ , _they love me._

Sometimes it was enough to quiet the demons and ghosts in her head. Sometimes it wasn't. Tonight it wasn't, and so she did the next best thing to being held and reassured: She wrote a letter to Tyrion.

She re-read it again, blushing as she did so, and decided it was good enough to send. She didn't, admittedly, quite know what she was talking about, but she had a feeling he wouldn't mind all that much. It was a comfort to know, even though he was leagues and leagues away from her, that he cared for her, and would no matter what she did or how dumb it made her look.

* * *

_My wife,_

_You are positively trying to kill me. The weeks until we reunite are going to become much harder to get through._

_Lord Redwyne accepted and the world has not burned down yet with a council full of Reachmen, though calling Bronn a 'Reachman' is a kindness he might not deserve. He wanted a castle for quite a while, but I can sense him growing restless with all the responsibility. I would not be surprised if he resigned his post on the council soon. With Davos officially gone, I think it's making all of us start to think about how long we want to do this, and what comes next. This isn't a letter telling you I'm resigning my post, yet, but I've been thinking of your mother's words, the way you so eloquently put them about Jon: That you don't take your duty to your family lightly. I don't take my duty to mine lightly, either, and I hope you know that, but it bares repeating. Hear me roar, and all that, which really are pitiful words. At least 'winter is coming' means something._

_On your advice, I talked to Bran about having a queen. He said even less than usual, but what he did say was that 'Meera will do better things in the North than here with me. Tell Sansa to remember the ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them.' I'm not sure what the connection is, but perhaps you know it._

_All is quiet here, really. It's a little unnerving. As long as it holds until I can leave for Winterfell, I don't care much. I miss you dearly, even more so after your letter. It's hard to believe that a year ago I'd never once kissed you, and now it's all I can think of doing._

_Your fond husband,_

_Tyrion_

* * *

And suddenly, Sansa knew exactly what to do with the Dreadfort. She quickly wrote out a letter to Meera Reed, hoping her brother was right.

* * *

She thought she'd done a good job of pretending like she wasn't daydreaming about what she and Tyrion could get up to that night and was instead listening very intently to Alran and Lord Glover discuss how best to deal with the bandits plaguing the Dustins' land. Jonelle's repeated kicking of her leg under the table meant absolutely nothing, she was sure.

Evin had been given permission to interrupt the meeting if Tyrion arrived, but he didn't, which made her stomach queasy. He'd sent a letter when he arrived at White Harbor, and by her calculations he should be arriving that day. Of course, her anxiety meant that the meeting seemed to drag on and on and it became harder and harder to pay attention. Jonelle kicked her again and this time she kicked her back, sharing a grin with her Hand, who huffed quietly but grinned all the same.

When it was over, she retreated to her chambers and jumped when she found Tyrion in her solar, sitting at her desk and calmly reading a book. A scoff escaped her lips and she put her hands on her hips, staring at him sternly.

"It's rude to just barge into my chambers like this."

"I thought they were mine, too?" he said, marking his page and then looking up at her, a twinkle in his eyes. By the Gods, she missed him. It was unfortunate he was so much shorter than her and he couldn't exactly take her against the wall without some quick alterations.

He could on her desk, though.

"Oh, I suppose I can make an exception then," she said, and she walked over and sat down firmly on his lap, her knees brushing against the armrests of the chair. Then she kissed him greedily. "Welcome home."

She hadn't quite meant to say it, didn't think he quite thought of Winterfell as his home, but he smiled and kissed her nonetheless, and soon she was quite distracted from anything other than the man in front of her.

* * *

Sansa finds herself staring out over a shouting crowd. She feels sweat beading on her brow, and her head feels heavy like it did when she wore her hair pinned up in that ridiculous fashion Cersei used to wear. A statue of Baelor the Blessed stares back at her. When she dares to turn her head, she sees exactly what she expects: Cersei, Joffrey, Ilyn Payne, and her father. She sees Arya in the crowd, and her mother is there, and Robb, and Rickon, and Bran, and Jon. They are all pushing forward, trying to get up the steps, even Rickon, clinging to Bran's chair.

Joffrey speaks of sending her father to the Night's Watch and Jon's face momentarily brightens; she wonders idly what would have happened had the two gotten to serve together. But the sentence does not change, and she can't make herself move, this time, and she hears Arya berate her for it, decrying the pretty dress she's wearing like she did when they first reunited.

She recognizes that this is when she normally wakes up, but today Joffrey calls for the next prisoner. His face darkens to purple, but he can speak just fine, not the choking she vaguely remembers.

It is her husband who is now pressed down onto the steps of the sept, and this time she does scream. She shouts to Jon for help, to Arya, to Bran, but they ignore her. Her mother, Robb, and Rickon are bleeding; her mother's throat drips while her brothers are stabbed with arrows. The jeers are louder, calling for his death. Her mother and Robb are joining them; the rest of her family is just watching. Bran looks the most sympathetic, but he doesn't move.

Joffrey sentences Tyrion to death for the murders of the handmaiden Shae and Tywin Lannister, for being an accomplice to the murder of Daenerys Targaryean, for freeing Jaime Lannister, but his voice sounds more Northern than that of the Joffrey she remembers. This time she does lunge forward, trying to get to him, but she is held back by the cold hands of the Kingsgauard.

Except even in her dreams she would know that grip anywhere, and as Ilyn Payne beheads her husband, Ramsay Bolton whispers in her ear, "Don't fret, my pretty wife. I'm here now."

* * *

She bolted awake with a scream, and she could still feel Ramsay touching her, but it was softer, lighter. It took her a minute to realize it was Tyrion, whispering her name and touching her anywhere he could reach in hopes of calming her.

The door burst open and Alran and Ser Erock came in, Erock's sword out, Alran with his hand on his hilt, and Tyrion swore to them nothing had happened, that it was just a nightmare. The two, used to such occurrences from her like all of her Queensguard, gave her a onceover before nodding and returning to their post.

"They're quite efficient, aren't they?" Tyrion asked her, but she was still trying to get her heartbeat to slow and air to fill her lungs. She caught his hand on her cheek, holding it in place as she took deep breaths. He rested his other hand on her waist, speaking nonsense words of comfort, and he continued until her breath was back under control.

She hadn't been comforted from a nightmare in a while. The first few times they happened loud enough to gain her guards' notice, whoever was there would wake Talya to sit with her. On nights it didn't capture anyone's attention, she would either manage to calm herself enough to sleep, or she would work in her solar. Her handmaiden had long ago stopped being surprised by the sight of Sansa working by candlelight in her solar at early hours of the morning.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, and she shook her head quickly.

"I just have the Dreadfort and Boltons on my mind, I think. Meera's accompanying her father to the landowner's council so we can talk more about using the keep as the women's haven."

"So that's what Bran meant," Tyrion said with a smile, and she nodded. "Why not Karhold? It wouldn't affect your dreams quite so much."

"I like the irony. Plus it's more central. Not by much, of course, but it's somewhat closer to the Kingsroad and White Harbor, and it's on a river while Karhold is in a forest." She knew what he was doing, considering she'd shared her reasoning with him in one of the last letters she'd sent before he'd left King's Landing, and it made her smile. She tilted her head to kiss his wrist and then let him go. He left the hand on her waist, though, anchoring her to reality. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You're safe now, Sansa," he replied.

Her stomach dropped at the thought that he might not be, but she ignored it, and pushed him back into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Remember the ladies" is a quote from Abigail Adams, the wife of President John Adams. John was serving as a delegate to the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia while she was in their home state of Massachusetts, and they wrote each other a fuck ton of letters. This particular letter is dated late March, just as he was beginning to push the Congress to formally declare independence, which they eventually did on July 4. Their letters often discussed matters of political import the same way Sansa and Tyrion's do, so it feels only fitting it gains inclusion. There's your US history for the day.


	7. the snow in the moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We assumed that something must have happened. Either someone had snuck in, or..."
> 
> Ser Erock did not meet his eyes when he said that part, and that was when Tyrion knew that, despite his and Sansa's best efforts, the North had not welcomed him quite yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words and continued interest in this story! I've been having a lot of fun with it, and we're wrapping things up now.

With Sansa in a small council meeting, Tyrion retreated to their chambers after breakfast. Ser Erock still stood at the door. He wondered, idly, if the man had been out there all night; he must've been.

"Begging your pardon, your grace, over last night. The Queen has not had such a nightmare in a long time, and, well, pardon me again for being so forward, but your coupling isn't usually quite so… desperate sounding, if it even reaches us," the knight said, blushing as much as Podrick had in his early days. Ser Erock couldn't be much older than his former squire was now, really. "We assumed that something must have happened. Either someone had snuck in, or..."

Ser Erock did not meet his eyes when he said that part, and that was when Tyrion knew that, despite his and Sansa's best efforts, the North had not welcomed him quite yet.

* * *

The next week was filled with arrivals from all of the North's landowners for an annual meeting Sansa had organized shortly after taking her throne. It had started as literally a discussion on what keeps remained empty, who needed help rebuilding, and how they would truly form an independent North. This would be their third such conference, and as he held the title 'Lord of Winterfell,' he was expected to positively contribute.

He had spent most of his time in the North pouring over accounts, histories, and stocks with Evin and Maester Wolkan whenever he could. If he wasn't eating or fucking his wife, he was in the library, though he had combined both of those activities with his daily sessions at least once. Like they had during his first months here, he and Sansa often dined with various members of the household in her father's tradition, but he was listening to everything with much more rapt attention than he had before.

Ser Erock's words hadn't left him quite so easily as he'd hoped, and he'd been hesitant to discuss it with Sansa, or even Jonelle, who had been giving him odd looks over breakfast the past few days. Perhaps Sansa had said something to her, or she, in her unofficial capacity as Master of Whispers, had received wind of some plot to strike against him.

It would be his first time in front of such a delegation of Northmen, after all. This council had only just ended when he arrived with Bran, and he still had yet to meet some of them, and others he hadn't seen since departing Winterfell to march on King's Landing with the Dragon Queen. He'd been practically an enemy then, and he had truly no idea what awaited him now. Whether or not they'd been terrorized by the Long Night, most, if not all, of Sansa's bannerman had family who marched with Robb Stark, who had died at one of the many battles between then and the Red Wedding. As they loved to remind people, Northmen did not easily forget.

He'd truly thought he'd put much of these anxieties to rest by the time of Arya and Gendry's wedding, that the fact he was still alive meant that he had been forgiven, but now that he started to realize just how few of the lords and ladies he'd actually interacted with, they'd returned, as did the whispers in his mind of _Kinslayer_ and _Queenslayer_.

His night terrors, at least, were much more subtle than his wife's. There'd been no screaming or crying out this past week, but twice since she'd woken him by her thrashing and mumbled words he couldn't quite make out. She hadn't woken herself, and he'd managed to calm her enough with soothing words and touches. Last night, though, she'd stayed up much later than usual, as if exhausting herself would quiet her restless mind. He didn't want her to recount an itemized list of every trauma served to her, both in his absence and his presence, but he wanted to know what was keeping her awake, and why so suddenly, too, if it was at all sudden. Ser Erock said she hadn't had "such a nightmare in a long time." That didn't mean she wasn't having them. What had he missed while he'd been in King's Landing? Had she left hints of troubles in her letters and he'd just flown right by them? Perhaps the Seven Hells stood empty, and all her devils were here.

His certainly were.

* * *

He memorized the seating chart, because of course the meeting had a seating chart. It was held in a much grander solar than he'd ever been in. He assumed it was where she had her small council meetings, but many more chairs had been placed around the incredibly long table. Really, why not just meet in the Main Hall? The distance would be no different.

Sansa sat at one head and Jonelle at the other. He was seated on Sansa's left. Cley Cerwyn was across from him, and Eddara Tallhart on his left. The seating was somewhat dependent on the distance from each keep to Winterfell. Somewhat. It meant, though, that he was surrounded by people he could most easily converse with, considering Cley's sister and Eddara's cousin were two important members of his wife's small council. Loyalty from them did not concern him.

He didn't like the way Barbrey Dustin looked at his wife. He didn't like Barbrey Dustin, period, because from what he could tell, she basically ruled a land she had no claim to and she sided with the Boltons. Sansa spoke often of justice and the long memory of the North, but she seemed to have granted more pardons than she didn't. But hadn't Bran done much the same? Ruffle as few feathers as possible, advocate for stability over the lack of it. It wasn't spring just yet, though it was coming, and soon.

They'd all assumed the death of the White Walkers would lead to a shorter winter than called for, but it hadn't eased up yet, though everyone said it was much milder than they remembered a winter being, especially those up here. He didn't quite believe that

Lady Dustin's father, Rodrik Ryswell, eyed his wife in a similar manner. Harwood Stout and Ondrew Locke eyed Tyrion far more than Sansa, though his wife got her share of looks from them. He had a feeling these were Lord Glover's compatriots on the questions of marriage and succession. Not that they weren't important, genuine questions, but still.

Most of the other lords and ladies were content to whisper amongst each other. Mostly even between the genders, he noticed, which was not surprising. The South likely boasted a similar split in who ruled which houses. Howland Reed was perhaps the only one not participating in any such conversations. He, too, stared at Tyrion, but in a different way that he couldn't quite explain any other way than it reminded him of Bran.

Sansa called them all to attention, and, beginning with Lord Manderly, had them all go around and report on the current state of their lands and keeps. Some of those present were vassals of larger houses, and thus their reports were more short and succinct. He wanted to pay attention to what everyone had to say, but he found his eyes mostly on his lady wife.

Outside of petitions, Tyrion had not truly seen his wife interact with her people, especially the lords, and she was magnificent. Jonelle had been tasked with taking notes, but his wife still diligently noted down the points that were most important to her. She asked very good questions and could tell if someone was holding back information. Lady Tallhart was clearly shy, and Sansa gently probed her in a way that did not feel rude. Lord Ryswell made some sort of muttered comment to Lady Slate, and Sansa immediately called him on it and got him to apologize. It didn't take the look off his face, but from Tyrion's seat he could see her write down the man's name.

He was suddenly reminded of her asking him why he remembered the names of the men who mocked of him. In those first days together, before the Red Wedding, when they'd both tried so hard, they walked together through the gardens quite often. Sometimes in silence, sometimes not. He remembered her smile as they japed this day in particular, how she sat down to be able to speak with him better, the whisper of her voice as she talked about vulgar words for dung. He had to bite his lip to stop a smile from overtaking his face as Lady Mormont discussed rumors of pirates around Bear Island. Normally, he chalked his wife's brilliance up to her time spent observing Cersei and Littlefinger, and twisting their tactics to her own advantage. Perhaps he had more of an effect on her than he'd thought.

"And Winterfell, your grace?" Sansa asked, glancing to him. There was a gleam in her eyes, and he couldn't tell if it was because she was in her element, or because she was going to tease him in front of everyone assembled. The second seemed quite unlike her, but he swallowed in nervousness regardless.

"Our stores remain strong. Our household staff is filled out to what it used to be-"

"What would you know of how Winterfell used to be?" Lord Locke asked with a scoff.

"Lord Locke, you are addressing the queen's consort, and you will treat him with the same courtesy and respect you show me. Besides, I don't remember you visiting Winterfell when I was a child, my lord. Are you any better informed than Prince Tyrion, who in fact did?"

He'd gotten used to being addressed as 'your grace' when he was up here, but hearing the words 'Prince Tyrion' was still something rather foreign to him. He schooled his features, not wanting to give the man another reason to challenge him. Most everyone had already seen how he had to climb into the chair, and the silence had been deafening. The blocks Sansa had made for him were helpful, but when they openly watched him as he used them, it could be just as humiliating as not having them.

Lord Locke had nothing more to say, and Sansa, even as she reached for her quill, nodded to Tyrion to continue.

"We now field a full staff, Lord Locke. There was a small outbreak of sickness at the winter town, but Maester Wolkan has assured me he has it well within control." Much of what the other, nearer keeps had reported maintained true for Winterfell, and he didn't feel he needed to elaborate much more.

"Thank you, Prince Tyrion. Now, this morning I received a raven from the Citadel. Spring is on its way. I think it's time we look to fill our empty keeps. Lady Meera Reed and I have been discussing an idea for the Dreadfort."

As he knew most of his wife's plans and ideas, he contented himself with watching her work rather than debating. He had a feeling most of the lords and ladies wouldn't care much for his ideas anyways. Besides, he didn't know enough about his people to decide who should be granted lands or titles or both. Her idea for the Dreadfort wasn't outright opposed, either, which was much better than he expected. Lady Mormont in particular championed it, as did Lady Flint of Flint's Finger. Lord Whitehill was the only lord to speak in support of it, but no one as of yet was actively against it. Sansa promised them all a formal proposal on it at a later date, once she and Meera had more time to discuss it.

She stood, signaling the end of today's meeting, and they all quickly followed suit. He, of course, was the last one out of his seat, even with the block there for him stand on. Lady Tallhart's gaze was firmly on him, but it didn't seem like anyone else had noticed. Sansa nodded to her lords and ladies and left the room in a swirl of skirts. Jonelle quickly followed.

Tomorrow, they would break into smaller groups: Lord Manderly would meet with all those contributing to the North's navy, Lord Magnar would go over finances, and so on. It really was a brilliant system. Perhaps he could speak with Bran about it.

"Prince Tyrion," someone called, and he turned. Lord Stout had approached him, Lady Umber and Lord Glover just behind him. "We trust you for her sake. If anything we tell you winds up being used against us by your king, we won't be slow to retaliate."

They seemed to forget that his king was both a Stark and the Three-Eyed Raven, but he nodded regardless and walked to their chambers. Talya met him in the hall and said Sansa had called her. She carried some sort of gray dress in her arms, so Tyrion opened the door to the solar and the door to their rooms for her. Jonelle was sitting in the solar and nodded to them as they passed.

"That went well, I think," he said to Sansa as he entered their personal chambers, who merely nodded, brushing out her hair. It had been in a traditional Northern braid most of the day, but now it hung loose around her face as she attempted to straighten it out with her brush.

"I have the dress, your grace," Talya said before Sansa could answer him, laying it out on the bed. His wife jumped to her feet, abandoning her brush on the table.

"Excellent. I'll change now, if you don't mind." The handmaiden nodded and picked the dress back up, following Sansa behind the screen.

"Jonelle is in the solar," he added, not sure what else would be an appropriate conversation with Talya there.

"Yes, she and I will need to speak for a bit, I'm afraid, and then we'll have a meeting with the small council before the feast," Sansa answered. "And Lady Meera and I will need to speak as well, though perhaps we can find time tomorrow."

"You sound busy, then. Would you like me to gather the dung for you?"

He heard Talya snicker even as Sansa popped her head out from behind the screen, frowning at him. He merely grinned back at her.

"Why do I need dung?"

"I noticed you wrote down Lord Ryswell and Lord Locke's names, and I naturally assumed you and Jonelle would be sheep shifting their beds. Or are you going to take my advice and look into their perversions instead?"

Recognition filled her face and she rolled her eyes, returning behind the screen.

"Tyrion, I swear to the Old Gods and the New, if I hear from anyone that their rooms smell like dung, you won't be welcome in my bed for a week. You'll be stuck in your own chambers."

"I have my own chambers?" he teased. Evin had actually put his things there upon his return, and he'd had to request them be moved. He'd made it through with a straight face, while poor Evin had turned scarlet. Lord Whitehill had certainly been informed of his and his wife's relationship, adding one more potential ally.

Sansa didn't acknowledge his jest as she stepped out from behind the screen in a rather long gray dress. The bodice was black, almost like armor, similar to what he remembered her wearing during the war. While all of her dresses were quite nice, this one looked less lived in. He didn't think he'd seen her wear it before.

"I left the cape piece in the trunk, your grace. I'll bring it to you before the feast," Talya said, straightening the skirt around her.

"I suppose it would be a bit elaborate for a day dress, wouldn't it? Even with all the lords and ladies here. Thank you, Talya."

"Do you need help with your hair?"

"No, thank you." Talya curtseyed and left. Sansa turned to face Tyrion, but kept her gaze mostly on her dress. "I haven't worn this since my coronation. Does it fit alright?"

She really hadn't changed that much in three and a half years, and he shook his head, watching her smile when he did. Moving back to her vanity, she sat back down at the table. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen her hair entirely free before. She wasn't even pinning pieces of it the way he'd seen Cersei and Margaery do, and remembered Sansa once doing the same.

"It looks better with the cape. I look like a real Stark in it. Wolf fur, weirwood leaves. If it wasn't so heavy and hot I would wear it more often," she said, pulling the brush through her hair. He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Why wear it tonight?"

"To remind them all that I am still the woman they put on the throne. I am still the daughter of Eddard Stark." She looked up at him through the mirror. "I don't know what he would say about the two of us, but I do know that he would want me happy, and he would trust my judgement. I need them all to do so, too."

* * *

The rest of the meetings went off without a hitch, and as the final lords departed, he expected to see more of his wife. She remained distant, however, mentioning meetings with a household member or with Jonelle that she rarely discussed with him. She'd been much slower in the mornings, too, insisting on having a bath or otherwise finding some reason for him to head down to breakfast before her.

By the fifth day, he was growing concerned. She'd said she had another discussion with Jonelle after dinner, but when he went to the library to read, Jonelle was there, emerging from one of the stacks with a new book for herself. The woman clearly wasn't aware that Sansa had used her as an alibi, and the two had a brief discussion about a Northern spring. It didn't seem much different than winter had, to him, at least.

Jonelle bid him good night and left. He counted to twenty before doing the same. Sansa hadn't been in their chambers when he left, and he doubted she'd been waiting for him to return. Just to make sure he was right, he walked all the way through the library, but she wasn't there. He checked some of her favorite hidden spots in the keep, the small council chamber, and the sewing room. With a sigh, he returned to their chambers for his cloak. If she wasn't in the godswood or the yard, he was going to have to raise the alarm. His legs ached and it was cold out, but it was much easier to focus on the annoyance of those two things than the fear that something had happened to her.

He grabbed a torch from the yard as headed towards the godswood, his heartbeat as loud as his footsteps. Someone sat in front of the heart tree, and he picked up the pace, sighing in relief as the torchlight hit her red hair.

"Sansa, what are you doing?" he called, and she jumped, turning to look at him. Her face glistened in the torchlight, with what looked like tear tracks on her face. He wiped them away, looking at her. Maybe he should've said something as soon as he noticed she was avoiding him, but he could do something now.

"Can't a queen pray for her people?" she said, but he saw right through her.

"She can, but that's not what you're doing right now. What's troubling you, my dear?"

"It's stupid."

"Sansa, you are many things, but stupid is not one of them, and therefore none of your troubles are stupid."

"I didn't get my moonblood." The air left his lungs, and he sat down next to her, not caring that he might not be able to get up without her help. He knew enough about women to know what that meant. "I think it was merely off. It happens every now and then, more so when I was younger, but. All week I held my breath. In fear and…I think anticipation. When it finally happened today, I cried, but I don't think it was in relief."

Her tone was too hard for placations like 'I think'; he took her hand, and that was all she needed to add, "I was disappointed. I haven't- we see each other twice a year. Getting pregnant would be-"

"Hard, perhaps, but not impossible. Do you want children, not for succession? Just to want them?" he asked. When he agreed to marry her, he knew they would be expected to have children together, as much as it terrified him, but he would do it for her in a heartbeat. So many choices had been taken away from her, and he would give her this one, because he would simply go south and continue to do his work and get a letter when she was safely delivered. She would have to continue her duties as questions and rumors and hatred swirled and then she would enter the birthing chamber, and would she even exit it alive and whole? And their child-

She nodded so imperceptibly he almost didn't see it in the torchlight. Then she squeezed his hand and said softly, "Yes, I do."

"Then we will find a way," he said, and she looked at him with such love in her eyes that all his fears vanished for the moment, and all he could think of was taking her back to her chambers and fucking her senseless, spilling his seed in her, and when she reached out to cup his cheek his skin jolted at the touch.

"You will be a wonderful father," she said, and he smiled, because that was what he did when she said things like that to him. "You will," she repeated, as if she could read his mind.

"I did have a great example in what not to do, I suppose," he said lightly, and she laughed, but there was very little mirth in it.

"We will raise children who know that we would lay down our lives for them. Who love fiercely and follow their hearts, who are kind and good and intelligent. We won't let them be anything else."

"We won't," he agreed, because while his skills as a father were debatable, they could agree on that. He glanced away from the power of the emotion on her face, and locked eyes instead on the face of the weirwood tree, watching him, staring into his soul. He hoped that Bran wasn't in there, actually staring into his soul. Sansa said he could do that, once. "The weirwood tree looks more frightening in the dark than it does in the day."

"It does," she agreed without looking at it, and he cursed himself for somehow forgetting that this is where Ramsay Bolton had tied himself to her and her torment began. She hadn't come out here for peace and the old gods; she'd come out here to hide, to feel close with her family. He remembered her grip in his hand at Storm's End all those moons ago, and it gave him an idea.

"You know," he said, hoping that this wasn't a stupid idea, because he hated having those, "We never said our vows before the heart tree."

"You were at Arya and Gendry's ceremony; there aren't really vows to say."

"Well still. How can I be married to the Queen in the North if the Old Gods have never blessed us?"

She looked at him, glowing in the dim of his torchlight, without saying anything, before standing and pulling him to his feet. She positioned him at the front of the weirwood, then walked back a few paces.

"Sansa, of House Stark, Queen in the North and the Lady of Winterfell, a woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, comes before the Old Gods this night. Who comes to claim her?"

"Tyrion, of House Lannister, Prince Consort in the North, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King to Bran Stark, First of His Name. Who gives her?" She smirked a little at all of his titles, even without tacking on his Lannister ones, and he felt better about this idea.

"I give myself, and I will take this man." She strode forward and took his hand before kneeling back down in front of him and inclining her head in prayer. He just watched her, trying to memorize everything about this moment. So much of their first wedding was crowded in shame, drink, and guilt. This could be new, pure, untouched. It was, in fact, a better idea then he'd thought.

When she looked back up, she said, "Now you wrap me in your cloak, and it is done."

"It truly is quite easy, these Northern ceremonies," he said, and even though he knew he would regret it immediately and it was much too short for her, he passed her the torch and unfastened his cloak before wrapping it around her. She kissed him once he had. "That wasn't in the script."

"I improvised."

They kissed until he could no longer keep his lips from chattering. She took pity on him and returned his cloak. Then they walked back to the keep hand in hand, the only noise the crunch of snow under their feet.

Ser Alran just about fainted when he spotted them, and gave them both a long lecture on sneaking away, which they pretended to listen to before walking back to their chambers giggling and stumbling as if they were drunk on something other than each other.

They made love slowly, savoring every second, and once he'd brought her to the edge, he sped up until he spilled himself inside her, grunting her name. Her fingers cascaded through his hair, and he pressed a kiss to her stomach. He'd done it before, but this time her fingers tightened in his hair before outright tugging him back up her. Neither of them said it, but the feeling that bloomed in his chest as he worshipped her all over again felt an awful lot like love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Shakespeare, I'm so sorry I appropriated "hell is empty and all the devils are here" but once I had the idea I couldn't not do it.
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will be up next Thursday; my writing has slowed down a lot due to real life stuff and I'm not quite happy with what I've got cooking right now, so I don't want to make any promises. Soon though!


	8. like this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love is the death of duty, so I've heard."
> 
> "It doesn't have to be. It'll be hard, but would it be worth it if it wasn't?"
> 
> She didn't say anything about loving him, and neither did he. Her own words from Storm's End ran through her head, though, unprompted. Could she be in love with him? Could he be in love with her? Was this what that felt like?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They spend like half this chapter apart, yet I think it might be the most domestic one yet? Fascinating, really.

The very next morning at breakfast, Maester Wolkan handed Tyrion a scroll bearing Bran's seal. Sansa watched him as he opened it and read it. She didn't like the crease forming between his eyebrows.

"What is it?" she asked once he set the scroll down. He sighed.

"Daario Naharis and a contingent are arriving from Meereen. Bran wants me back as soon as possible. I'm afraid I'll have to leave for White Harbor on the morrow. The maesters may say it's spring, but I'm not ready to trek across Westeros quite yet."

He had an odd look on his face, not quite confusion or trying to put things together in his head. It was similar, but it also looked like guilt.

"Do you know him? From when you were in Meereen?"

"Quite well. He was a sellsword who became her lover. She left him in charge when we sailed to Westeros."

"She left a sellsword in charge?" Truly, it was the much more interesting bit of information.

"I know. He always struck me as a fighter over a leader. I assumed he only stayed for her, and with her gone he would leave." He took a sip from his goblet, but she knew him well enough to know he was stalling. "Do you think he knows? I never wrote to him. I didn't think to. For all I know Grey Worm went back there to serve him and told him then."

"I don't know," she said. The thought of more people loyal to Daenerys not only returning to Westeros but being around her family scared her more than she cared to admit. She trusted Bran and Tyrion, but she couldn't deny the grip of fear on her heart. "I'll write to Wylis Manderly first thing. If there aren't any ships, he'll need to host you."

"Wasn't he captured by my family during the war? I doubt it will make him a welcoming host."

"The Manderlys are loyal to House Stark. In their eyes, that is who you are now."

Her message in her coronation gown had been well-received by her lords and ladies. All the comments and the questions had stopped, and she thanked the gods that Jonelle had the foresight to make sure the dress was kept in good condition. She hadn't gotten apologies, which frankly she didn't expect, but she felt reasonably confident that her people had not wavered too much in their trust and loyalty in her. She resolved to tread much less carefully now than she had been this past year.

Besides petitions, there wasn't much to do. Lord Glover and Lord Magnar had both returned home for a spell, so even if there had been a small council meeting, there wouldn't be much to discuss. After sending off a letter to Ser Wylis and speaking with Maester Wolkan about the state of their medicinal stores, she resolved to keep her mind busy by spending time with her husband. They didn't speak of Meereen, though. They read together in the library, and then spent the night much like the previous.

After they'd finished, she held him tightly against her. She'd long grown used to the fact that lying with Tyrion's small frame sometimes felt like lying with a child, and holding him so close to her felt a bit like it. But she wasn't ready to let him go. He had so quickly become so important to her in ways she still wasn't sure of. And if she was pregnant, she didn't want to face it alone. It had barely been a month, this time. How long would he be away? Would he return a father?

"I'm not ready to let you go," she finally whispered. He reached out to run a hand through her hair, resting it on her hip.

"Sansa. If you ask me to stay, I'll stay."

"I know." She felt him startle, a little, against her. She wondered if he was just as surprised by the fact as she was. She certainly hadn't know it until he said it, but it wouldn't matter. "We have our duties to our realms. This is the price."

"Love is the death of duty, so I've heard."

"It doesn't have to be. It'll be hard, but would it be worth it if it wasn't?"

She didn't say anything about loving him, and neither did he. Her own words from Storm's End ran through her head, though, unprompted. Could she be in love with him? Could he be in love with her? Was this what that felt like?

"Well, a Lannister always pays his debts. And I fear I am indebted to you as much as I am the realm."

She pushed herself up on her elbow, scooting back from him so she could study his face. He'd become easy to read, truly.

"Just promise me that there will come a day when you can come home. When the only debt you are in is mine."

Oh, could she picture that so clearly. Standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, children running around, and her leaning down to kiss him. No one staring at them, because this was just what the Queen in the North and her prince did. Loved fiercely.

He shifted slightly in order to hold her face in his hands, and said, "I swear it."

* * *

Dear Tyrion,

I hope your journey has gone well. Give my brother my regards, and I wish you luck with Naharis and the Meereenese delegation. Do inform them that if their trip south proves unsuccessful, we would be happy to host them at Winterfell to discuss… whatever it is they have come to discuss.

Lady Meera and I finalized the proposal today for the Dreadfort. Maester Wolkan is currently copying it out to send to the major lords. Those on the small council approved it, but it is up to all of the others to weigh in as well. Even Lord Glover was complimentary of it, though, so I have hope.

I have reason to believe that Jonelle has become involved in some regard with Ser Erock. He has taken to guarding her door more often than mine, and I often see them laughing in the main hall. I asked Ser Alran about it, but he stammered and blushed when I asked. I am not sure if it is out of embarrassment at the question or embarrassment over knowing something, but he refused to answer me regardless. Did you notice anything before you left?

Ser Wylis sent me a raven saying you were a wonderful guest. I of course have no reason to doubt you weren't, but it was a rather brief letter and I need to know if there's anything I should be discussing with Lord Manderly?

I wish you much luck.

Your wife,

Sansa

PS. I almost forgot. I do not appear to be with child.

* * *

_Dear Sansa,_

_I hope you truly did forget. Bronn followed me to my solar the second I entered the keep, asking me questions about Daario, and when I discovered I had a letter from you I was shaking so badly he thought something bad had happened. He felt the need to then provide some tips on how to best get pregnant, which concerns me for how many bastards might be out there that he hasn't told me about. He has yet to make any progress on finding a wife, and is becoming quite annoying about it. I have sworn him to secrecy on our news in exchange for arranging a betrothal myself, which I know I should have done a long time ago. It's too bad Cersei married off Lollys Stokeworth; he did seem to like her well enough, but marrying him outside the Reach now would be disastrous. It's a miracle no one's revolted against him yet, truly._

_Having Daario and the Meereenese delegation is certainly distracting, though. I don't know the other emissaries he brought with him. They arrived the day after I did, and they basically just want trade deals. Daario cornered me the second night and asked for everything about Daenerys. Apparently, since no one had ever contacted him, he'd assumed she had no thought for him. The rumors from the Six Kingdoms clearly either didn't circulate to Meereen, or where so destroyed by translation and exaggeration that he didn't bother to believe them._

_He knew, though, that Daenerys died because he's seen Drogon flying over Meereen. He hasn't been too much of a danger, but he's taken some livestock. The city has continued to thrive otherwise, and it remains free of slaves. Much of Slaver's Bay still refuses to treat with him, but I don't know why he seeks us out in particular. Now that he knows the North is independent, he might come to you as well, but I thought it would be rude to my king if I offered in your name. It is a delicate dance, this marriage and this role as your brother's hand, but I am glad for both._

_I feel much more content with myself than I have in a long time. I do not know why, but I know you are an important piece of it all, and for that I thank you. I know you feel quite the same. It's strange, isn't it, after all this time?_

_Congratulations to you and Lady Meera. I am very proud of both of you. Did you make the decision on the new name as well?_

_Ser Erock and Jonelle? I'm afraid I have no gossip to aid you with. I'm not sure I've ever seen them together outside of the Main Hall at meal times. What would that mean for you, though? Is he sworn to celibacy, and a Queensguard for life? And would Jonelle even get married? She struck me as independent like your sister, though I suppose she herself is married._

_You seem to be fishing for information, wife, and I know you were trained better than that. What did Ser Wylis say about me that has you so concerned? I swear I was a charming guest. I even kept my drinking to a minimum for your sake._

_Your luck is appreciated. Daario has surrounded himself with competent men and women who are quite difficult to negotiate with. We have another few tense days ahead of us, though your brother seems unconcerned. Naturally._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

* * *

Her plan for the Dreadfort went through. They renamed it Castle Stone. If anyone wondered why it shared its name with bastards from the Vale, they didn't ask her, not even Meera. They replace the old Bolton banners with gray ones bearing a single blue rose on them. In the eyes of most of Westeros, Lyanna Stark is still a symbol of cruelty towards women, no matter their beliefs or knowledge of what truly happened. Jon and Bran may have insisted that she married Rhaegar for love, but neither of them lived with Robert Baratheon. Sansa was not as easily convinced. She herself knew the rumors surrounding Loras Tyrell, but that hadn't stopped her from dreaming of being his wife because anything sounded better than Joffrey. She hadn't let herself believe them, and she could picture her aunt doing much the same with Rhaegar, seeing it as her only way out.

Well, maybe _anything_ hadn't sounded better than Joffrey. She'd certainly been afraid of Tyrion at first, and even when that went away, she'd still been a young girl with no say trapped by a collection of people who were abusers in their own way. At the time, life in the Eyrie had felt like agency, but she knew now that it wasn't anywhere close. She hadn't known true agency until her coronation. Even under Jon, she'd been stifled by bent knees and terrible horrors waiting to attack.

A month after she and Meera decreed it open, Meera wrote to her to say they already had five women inside, and that she was sending a rapist to Winterfell for sentencing, and three names to investigate as well.

Her next goal, then, was to find a Master of Whispers.

* * *

_Dear my skeptical wife,_

_Before I respond to your previous letter, I have to say this, because I don't know if your brother will: He was very appreciative of the tunic you sent him. He said it looks like one your father used to wear, I believe, and it was by far his favorite nameday present. Much more than the book I got him, and don't roll your eyes at me, he_ _ asked _ _for the book, something about the Kings in the North. And yes, I managed to find it without your help, which made me quite proud._

_Arya and Gendry sent him a knife, though, and my book went over better than that. I think your sister was trying to make a joke, but he didn't find it overly funny; he just kind of looked grimly at it._

_But enough about Bran. Yes, the weather here is treating me quite well. Most of the snow has melted, because yes, it does snow here in winter--you don't have to believe me but it's true. It's quite muddy now, though, which makes it difficult to take out the wheelhouse or litter, so we've mostly been stuck in the keep. Despite the mud, the roads and temperatures are much better, so most of the small council is currently heading home. Since I left most recently, I have been appointed to stay behind. The second one of them returns, I will be heading North. I have a feeling Bran is going to send me up the Kingsroad to check in on people, though, which I am not looking forward to, especially since it's going to be harder for you to get letters to me. I haven't ridden a horse in a while, you see, and I have a feeling that'll get me to Winterfell faster than a wheelhouse, so I won't complaint that much._

_Would it be so bad for Lord Manderly to change positions? I agree that he makes the most sense. Didn't you tell me he's how the Umbers wound up with Rickon in the first place? It sounds like he already has good connections. You could even send him permanently back to White Harbor, if you wanted. I suppose I shouldn't know too much about Jonelle and Ser Alran's spy networks, but I know they have them, and I know you speak with Talya quite often when I'm not there about what goes on within Winterfell's walls. Conflict of interest and all, which I understand. I just mean that you would be well protected in Winterfell and the nearby town, and that would allow him to focus on larger whispers, like those passed by sailors._

_I think my only question would be who would become your Master of Ships? Alysanne Mormont? I'm not sure who else has a significant naval presence. One of the things I've neglected in my study of our people, I will admit. With the pirates on the loose, I'm not sure taking her away from Bear Island would be wise, though I'm sure you've already thought of that._

_Do keep me informed on Jonelle and Ser Erock. Did they fall for your trap? I think Jonelle will be able to see right through you, my dear. I'd be willing to put money on it._

_Brienne and Podrick send their love. I told Podrick you wouldn't mind writing to him as well, but he blushed at the prospect. I think that boy only has two options: Pale or scarlet. Though he's not a boy anymore, I suppose. He's four and twenty now. His nameday is just after Bran's; did you know that? I got him a new pair of boots and told him they were from both of us, so don't fret over sending him something._

_I miss you._

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

* * *

He was right, of course, he almost always was. She sat on everything for a bit. Sent a letter to Pod wishing him a happy nameday, and asked if he wanted something other than boots, and got a short reply saying basically thanks, but no thanks. Sentenced a rapist to death for raping three girls, yes, girls, not women. One of them had flowered, but Meera said she looked no more than one and ten, and Sansa refused to consider that a woman. Co-negotiated a new trade deal over fruit from Dorne. She did not manage to get Jonelle to fall for her rather clever trap, but Jonelle admitted to having kissed Erock anyway, so she felt victorious enough. Heard petitions. Coordinated the capture and death of pirates. Finally started a true spy network, after years of telling herself that Petyr was wrong, and she could rely on her people's love alone.

Based on Tyrion's letters, in the same amount of time, Bran had appointed a new high septon, attended Bronn's wedding, and finalized trade deals with Meereen. It wasn't a competition, of course, but she couldn't help but think she was winning.

* * *

Dear my restless husband,

Thank the gods. I was about to send a letter to Bronn and tell him that if he wasn't back in the capitol within the next moonturn, I would find a way to make his life ridiculously unpleasant. I hope Bran knows I'm going to fight to keep you for more than a month this time. Three, at least. And if you do stop at any keeps, send me ravens, please. We've cleaned up our part of the kingsroad, and we're not at war anymore, but I worry. I'm telling Pod, too, so hopefully between the two of you you'll remember.

Lady Alysanne arrived in Winterfell yesterday and we had our first small council meeting with her. She wants to expand ports in the North, which Lord Manderly admitted was a good idea, though it clearly was hard for him to say. He'd done the bare minimum for ports that weren't White Harbor and then called it a day. She challenges him, in a good way. Lord Magnar is absolutely in awe of her, I think. Sadly for him, I think any pursuing will go about as well for him as it did for Tormund when he went after Ser Brienne. Alysanne already has children, after all; she doesn't need anyone.

Speaking of pursuing, Jonelle asked for Ser Erock to come with her when she goes home in a fortnight. Not forever, of course; did I mention to you that Lord Cley and his wife were expecting their first child? Well, they are, and the babe will arrive any day now, so she will be going home for at least a sennight. It's all escalated rather quickly, but Erock is a good man. I made no rules of celibacy for my Queensguard, and Ser Alran has not noticed a slip in Erock's behavior or commitment. And Jonelle is quite happy.

It only makes me jealous when I think of how far away you are, and no amount of daytime activity has proven distracting enough when I go to sleep. Come home.

Your equally restless wife,

Sansa

* * *

Just a few weeks shy of a month since her husband rode out of Winterfell, he returned. This time, she greeted him in the courtyard, dropping to her knees to pull him close to her. He kissed her forehead, and even though she never left, it felt almost like coming home had all those years ago.

* * *

The first few weeks were much like last year- Tyrion ran about, trying to learn everything he could about Winterfell's state before everyone arrived for the conference; Sansa did the same but was much less obvious about it. She poured over notes with her small council from the last session, spent hours with Lord Manderly and Jonelle and Ser Alran and Talya discussing spy reports, wrote dizzying amounts of proposals and rebuttals and defenses. Most of her people were already on their way, so the rookery stood almost eerily quiet, except for the few lone letters family and friends were sending from across Westeros. Jon went beyond the wall again. Gendry forged Arya a new weapon. Bran wrote her some cryptic note about trust that made her hackles rise as she tried, desperately, to figure out who she was or wasn't supposed to trust, and with what.

Tyrion let her take out her stress on him, in the form of angry tirades and in fast, hard coupling that you could only call fucking and him picking up the slack as Lord of Winterfell. It was him who made all the room and feast preparations with Evin and the cooks. He even organized a hunt in the Wolfswood to celebrate spring, which was such a hit with her lords and even some of her ladies that she didn't feel the need to remind them all that she was still a Stark and her judgement should be trusted on that alone. Now they trusted her judgement because she proved it was right to be trusted.

The gods were cruel to her, and to him, and she could never forget that, but other times, she kneeled before the heart tree and thanked every single one of them for giving them each other.

It was during one such trip, surrounded by a few other lords and even Tyrion, in the back, kneeling but she could tell he didn't pray, that she finally understood what Bran's letter meant. It meant trust him, with it all, and let him trust her, too, and while they won't fix each other, they'll come out far stronger in the end.

She did that night. After the final feast, after making love slowly, savoring every inch of his skin that she could reach, she opened her heart fully and without fear. He'd told her she didn't need to, that he didn't need to know everything, but she told him regardless, starting all the way back to that day on the kingsroad when Nymeria bit Joffrey. Her throat was sore by the end of it all and she shook just a little, but she felt like a weight had been taken off her shoulders, weight she was never meant to bear alone.

He recognized what she'd done, and so he told his own story. He didn't have to say what happened to Tysha for her to understand. Both revelations about Shae- that he loved her, and that he killed her- put King's Landing and the game he played there into perspective.

Perhaps she should be afraid of a man who killed his lover, who convinced her brother to kill his own, but she wasn't. She understood. Maybe something was broken in her, but it was broken in him, too. She'd killed, too. She'd betrayed her friends and family when she knew what came next, even when they refused to see it.

After the damage was done, their faces wet, their bodies intertwined, she realized: This must be what love feels like. Acceptance.

* * *

They got five months, this time. When they arrived at Castle Cerwyn for Jonelle and Ser Erock's wedding, a letter from Bran waited for them, insisting that he needed Tyrion and he could return in a few months. The letter didn't say why. Sansa suspected it was bullshit, her brother trying to get one over on her--but then remembered that, for all she didn't fully recognize her brother anymore, he wasn't cruel.

Both Jonelle and Ser Erock were planning on staying mostly at Winterfell. He was still a member of her Queensguard, after all. But Jonelle had never been given a choice over where she would be married before, and Erock was not from a landed family; his mother worked in Winterfell's kitchens before being killed by the Boltons, and Erock worked with whatever Master-At-Arms was appointed at the time, knowing no other way to protect his family. Sansa knighted everyone who had fought in and survived the War for the Dawn, and while she perhaps shouldn't have trusted him, Ser Alran did, and he was the one to organize her Queensguard. Now, Erock was perhaps her most loyal member.

So they decided to marry in the godswood at Castle Cerwyn. Arya and Gendry were invited, and Sansa hadn't seen her sister since her wedding, and spent much of the ride to the keep nearly vibrating with excitement.

The reunion with her sister was much better than their first one, years ago in the crypts. Arya fully hugged her back this time, for one, and there was no discussion of Joffrey or lists. They walked to the main hall for the welcoming feast and Arya complained about some of the Stormlords. Sansa glanced back at her husband and Gendry and found them talking, which made her smile as she turned back to listen to Arya's rant. She'd clearly been saving it just for her.

Sansa was yawning by the time the last course was served, and she and Tyrion walked back to their assigned chambers shortly after. They changed quickly and all but collapsed into bed, both worn out by the hard ride. Castle Cerwyn wasn't that far from Winterfell, but there'd been a summer snow last night and their party had to really pick up the pace at the end to make it in time.

He kissed her hand and was snoring before she knew it. Despite her own exhaustion, she couldn't help but smile and curl up against him. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but they didn't come out, and she closed her eyes and fell asleep to his heartbeat.

* * *

The dress she brought for the wedding was one gifted to her for her nameday by her sister. Or, well, the fabric had been gifted to her by her sister, some Lysene silk that she treasured.

"Your tits look fantastic," Tyrion said after the assigned handmaid had left, and she rolled her eyes. The dress' waist was high, sitting just underneath her breasts in a way that Tyrion had never seen from her.

"It's not about me today."

"That may be true, but I do remember the last wedding we attended together ended remarkably well."

"Oh really?" she said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He understood exactly what she was doing and came to stand in front of her. She spread her legs just enough for him to stand between them, his hands on her waist, pulling her as flush against him as he could.

"At Bronn's wedding, all I could think about was how your fingers trailed up my arm," he said, mimicking the action against her own arm. She shivered. "How your lips felt. The noises you made. Watching you come for the first time. The way you felt around me." He pressed a kiss to her between every sentence--her collarbone, her neck, her lips. She was dangerously close to never leaving their rooms.

"Well, maybe tonight we'll do it all again," she replied.

And they did. She passed out, absolutely exhausted, afterwards, and didn't even wake until after he'd left, a note on the vanity table telling her he loved her. She wondered what gave him the courage to do so, but maybe it was that he didn't have to say it to her face.

* * *

It took her three weeks to realize she was pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same deal as last week: I hope to have the next one up next Thursday, but we'll see. Thanks for reading; let me know what you think!


	9. we've done this all before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Why am I king, Tyrion?" he asked in a steady, low voice, one much lower than the child who'd scaled the walls of Winterfell all those years ago, who was broken by the recklessness and madness of Tyrion's own siblings, who has traveled both figuratively and literally further than any of them has ever dared.
> 
> "Is that a rhetorical question?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a somewhat shorter chapter but I hit everything I wanted to hit, so here we are. It's one part actually the plot of this fic, one part projecting onto Tyrion, and one part trying to understand season 8. Enjoy?

Sansa didn't wake when he extracted himself from behind her, the sun just beginning to shine through their window. She made a noise and rolled over, like she was seeking the warmth of his body, but she didn't stir any more than that.

He'd never pictured himself as a cuddler, but Sansa almost always managed to wrap herself around him in the night, regardless of whether or not they started that way. More often than not, her hair gets in his mouth, or his arms go numb, or he pitches a tent against her thigh that they don't often have time to deal with, but he didn't care all that much. Her breath, even in the morning when it reeks, mingling with his own, her hand over his heart like she could memorize his heartbeat, it all felt more intimate than he thought it ever would. He knew that, tomorrow morning, on the road with Pod and Ser Ellion, the feel of waking up without her would feel more painful than the numbness of his arm ever could.

When did he become such a sentimental romantic?

He, Pod, and Ellion were joined by Cley Cerwyn and no one else in the main hall, most nursing headaches or asleep like his wife up in their rooms. Sansa still wasn't awake when he returned, and he gathered his things and pressed a kiss to her hairline. He noticed a stack of parchment and a quill in the corner, and he walked over to it and wrote a quick note, explaining that he'd left and that he would miss her.

And that he loved her.

He hadn't even realized he'd done it until he stood in the hall, the door shut behind him. It stopped him in his tracks. Could it really be that simple?

Ellion appeared then, asking him if he was ready, and Tyrion said yes, and he did not leave it in a note because he was a coward, but knowing that she couldn't refute it certainly made him feel stronger as he mounted his horse in the yard and set off for the kingsroad.

With just the three of them, and no snow in sight, it was perhaps the quickest journey he'd ever made. They stayed at inns, because the thought of the three of them sharing a tent or taking watch in shifts reminded them all too much of the war. Besides, it keeps coin flowing through the kingdoms, and Bronn's made it very clear that coin should always be flowing.

He sent a letter to Sansa informing her of his arrival, but he got a response from her in only a day, which could only mean that she'd written to him well before he to her. He expected it to be one of the letters she liked to send meant to welcome him home, but this one was short, straightforward, nothing about gossip or missing him or genuine concerns for the kingdom he sometimes forgot was his now, too.

The first thing he did after reading it was get drunk. The lack of Jaime suddenly felt like a hot poking iron, branding every inch of his skin, in a way it hadn't even felt when he'd dug him out of the rubble of the Red Keep, or when Tyrion mourned him, alone, locked away in a cell plotting regicide- how much of that had been out of fear of Jon becoming his brother, Jon throwing it all away on a mad queen, Sansa having to lose someone else?

Jaime, the only person in the world who understood what Tyrion had been through at Casterly Rock, who knew the fear of a woman you loved perhaps suffering the same fate as your mother. It made him regret the fact that he hadn't been in King's Landing much when Cersei was pregnant, that he didn't even have a memory of how Jaime had acted around her.

When he'd agreed with Sansa over having children, he knew there were possibilities with this pregnancy he simply couldn't ignore, but he had no idea how to bring them up to her. Her letter was frantic, barely four sentences long, scribbled out to him in between somethings, but he hadn't been gone from the North that long. Either something had happened, or she couldn't bring herself to write any more, and he didn't know which one made more sense, which would quiet his mind, because right now it was running amok. All the horrible, bloody images he'd conjured in his brain of what his birth must've been like. All the times he'd cursed his stature or people had cursed him for it. All the people he'd killed. All the times he'd had a thought that reminded him too much of his father.

He knew how to play the game. He knew how to bend knees and trick people. He didn't know how to love, did he? He was trying, so hard, with Sansa, but that was different. She was just as broken as he was. A child- _their_ child-would be new, in tact, perfect, maybe, even.

He couldn't tell her all that, though. Not when she was so clearly worried herself.

* * *

_Dear Sansa,_

_I wish our timing was much better, and I could be there to hold your hand and kiss you._ ~~_Because what if I never get to again?_ ~~_When do you think you are due? I will start to make arrangements with Bran and the council as to when I can return home. Hopefully before the birth._ ~~_Would I rather watch you die or hear it from a letter?_~~ _Have you told anyone else? Do you want me to tell anyone else?_ ~~_How certain are you?_~~

~~_I love you. Are you scared? I'm terrified. What if it kills you? What if grows up and kills me?_ ~~

_How are Jonelle and Erock adjusting? Have they returned to Winterfell?_ ~~_Are you alone? Don't be alone._~~ _Oh, and have you gotten any more out of Meera about why Bran mentioned her as his wife?_ ~~_Can you tell I'm distracting you? Is it working?_~~

_Yours,_

_Tyrion_

* * *

Dear Tyrion,

I told the council today. Everyone was very congratulatory. I think they all meant it, too. Lord Manderly thinks we should prepare a tourney for the birth, make announcements across the kingdom and to our major allies. Does that happen in the south? I was too young, obviously, for the births of Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. In the North, letters are usually sent once the babe is safely delivered and lived a few weeks, just to be certain all is well. I don't want to tempt fate. The gods have given me an almost idyllic few years in comparison to what happened before. I can't lose it.

Oh. There's this feeling in my stomach- it's not bad, I promise, it's like… fluttering. You know how your stomach feels when you get nervous, sometimes? Kind of like that. I think they're quickening, Tyrion. I mean, I'm starting to show, even in my normal dresses-Talya took a few out yesterday, and we've all but abandoned my corset-and I've felt sick and tired and sore, but… now it feels so much more real.

I can't feel it on the outside, so I doubt you would be able to, but I wish you were here. My dreams are starting to get… interesting, to say the least. I might need another naughty letter or two.

I meant to write more, but I can feel myself getting teary and I don't want to drip on the letter. I almost cried when Talya brushed my hair yesterday. She does it every day; I don't know what came over me, but Maester Wolkan says it's common. I suppose I'll have to trust him. He's only a maester, after all.

I miss you. You leave in two moons, correct? I'm glad we'll have some time together before the babe arries. I really, really miss you.

Yours,

Sansa

* * *

Bran and Ellion found him on the balcony looking out over King's Landing. Ellion merely deposited Bran and then left. His king normally didn't trek up to the Tower of the Hand, what with all the stairs, but Ellion was built much like the Mountain, and when Bran did make the trek, it was with him.

"What do I owe the pleasure, your grace?" Tyrion asked, setting Sansa's letter aside. Bran followed his movement, then looked into his face. Bran always looked like he was lost in time, watching a dozent things at once, but now that probing look was trained solely on Tyrion's face. It reminded him so much of his wife that he almost shivered.

"What did my sister have to say?" Bran answered, though Bronn had lectured him a lot on answering a question with a question.

But that was yet another thing; Sansa had told him several letters ago that she was fairly certain, and that he could tell people, if he wanted, but he hadn't. He assumed Bran knew, being Bran and all, but he still couldn't say the words out loud, quite yet. They were either the greatest or the most terrifying in the Common tongue.

"She, uh," he found himself saying, then stopped, reaching for his wine and taking a sip. Bran continued to watch him with that same look. He didn't like this Present Bran. He much preferred the Three-Eyed Raven that left him alone. "She felt the babe move today. Or, well, the day she wrote me."

"She's pregnant?" Bran said, and there was something in his tone that Tyrion couldn't quite pick out. Not shock or surprise, not even probing, just… compassion. He'd never heard Bran speak like that.

"Yes." He took another sip of wine, liquid courage, and said, for the first time, "She is with child. Our child."

"And you are unhappy?" Yes, definitely not the smug all-knowing of the Three-Eyed Raven. The care of a friend. Of a brother, even.

"I am not not happy. I am conflicted, is all." Bran hummed, like he understood emotions. There'd been much debate, behind his back of course, as to if he still could really feel, or if he just went through the motions of empathy and caring.

"Why am I king, Tyrion?" he asked in a steady, low voice, one much lower than the child who'd scaled the walls of Winterfell all those years ago, who was broken by the recklessness and madness of Tyrion's own siblings, who has traveled both figuratively and literally further than any of them has ever dared.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Tyrion said, having no other answer for this Three-Eyed Raven, who knew all, had known what Tyrion would say better than any of them.

"The last time I had rule over anything, my castle was taken out from under me. My only knowledge of the War of the Five Kings and everything that came after is from either the view of a child or what I am able to see in the weirwood trees. I have no knowledge of how to wield weapons or steer a ship or even negotiate. Yet my story earned me the title over seasoned lords and commanders and sailors. So why am I king?"

He'd spent so much time recently reflecting back on that cell, on every thought that had swirled through his head as it became more and more clear that Daenerys would have to die. He knew they wouldn't let Jon take the throne after that; Jaime's name was only spoken about in connection to the Iron Throne as being found sitting on it, Aerys' corpse at his feet. Sansa had the brains, but she needed to be in the North; he would no sooner return her to King's Landing than he would return to Casterly Rock. Edmure Tully had been a prisoner for so long, and had really only ruled Riverrun for a few months; he was untrained. Davos would never take the throne. Yara was fit to rule the Salt Throne, but she was too much of a battle commander for the Seven Kingdoms. He'd never even heard of the new prince of Dorne, and Robin Arryn was a wildcard. Lord Royce was just learning how to get through to him.

Oh, but Bran Stark. Bran the Broken. Tyrion knew his story from Sansa, who'd confided it to him one night at Winterfell, after the battle but before everything went to shit again, grieving Theon and wanting her brother back. A blank slate, with all of the knowledge in the world at his fingertips.

"Because I knew you could learn all of those things. You could be molded."

"Yes. But omniscience is not the same thing as understanding. The Six Kingdoms are in need of molding as much as I am. We are trying to break something that we have known far longer than anything else. Even I do not know if we will succeed, if we even can." Bran paused; had he always had a flair for the dramatic? Jaime said he'd arrived in Winterfell to the boy-the man-waiting for him, as if to remind him of what he'd one the last time he'd been within Winterfell's walls. "But I have faith in you, and Bronn, and Brienne and all the rest of them that, even if we can't, we can make something new. Who better to start over with than the Three-Eyed Raven?"

"And the faith makes it possible, does it?" Tyrion asked, swirling the wine around in his glass.

"Yes. And Sansa has faith in you."

And there it was.

"And I in her," Tyrion said, because if she survived, then yes, he knew Sansa would be a good mother. She would raise the good and kind and intelligent children she dreamed of, that the world deserved.

"Then why not in yourself? Do you know why I summon you to me whenever I can? Because you are one of the cleverest men I have ever met. I don't know what I'm doing half the time, but I know what I can do, and I know that you will help me make the right decisions. I will never have children, but I do know that you do not raise children alone, and I also know that no one knows what they are doing, that everyone is terrified in one way or another. Yes, even your father. Where do you think your brother got the idea to be at your sister's side in her birthing chamber?"

Tyrion sputtered; he'd never heard Bran speak so much, so quickly, and with such passion. How long had he been hiding this? And why did Tywin fucking Lannister have to be the thing that set him off?

"What are you trying to tell me? That his willingness to be at my mother's side indicated fear of being a good parent?" Tyrion said. He set his glass back down, because he could feel his hands shaking and had no desire to wear his wine.

"I am saying your father was a cold and calculating man who would not hesitate to order someone to death for himself and his family, who loved his wife fiercely. Does that sound familiar?"

 _Halfman, demon monkey, imp, Queenslayer,_ kinslayer-

He pressed his hand to his head with more force than strictly necessary, like he could manually make his brain stop turning, and bit out, venom on his tongue, king or no king, "Your grace, if this is supposed to make me feel better-"

"But your father craved the power the wheel afforded him. Would he dare to break it?" Bran asked, all the emotion gone from his voice. It was that probing again that he got when asking you a question he knew- or at least pretended he knew- the answer to.

"No."

"You have. And if you can convince some of the smartest, fiercest, most skilled lords and ladies of Westeros that a crippled boy can be king, you can be a good father. You will mold them as well as you have molded me."

Bran cleared his throat, and suddenly Ellion appeared and picked him up, carrying him away. Tyrion turned around in his chair. He could've sworn Ellion had left the room entirely. How much had he heard? If Ellion told Pod, then the whole council would know by tomorrow evening, and he really didn't want to have to talk about all of this with Bronn, though perhaps he should talk to Sam, spend some time playing with Little Sam and Joanna and baby Dickon.

But first he owed his wife a letter.

* * *

_Dear Sansa,_

_I must confess a great number of things to you. First, I am absolutely petrified about raising a child, children, together. Secondly, I take back everything I've ever said about throttling your brother. I'll explain..._

* * *

Dear my honest husband,

Thank you for telling me all of this. I'm rather scared too, actually, and I'm glad I'm not alone. I know I can't assuage all of your fears, especially in writing, but believe me, I will do everything in my power to make it through the birth alive and whole.

As for having a dwarf, why shouldn't I want a child who reminds me so much of their father? The way your father treated you was inexcusable, Tyrion, and I would never allow anyone to treat our child, including you or me, that way. I know it all probably feels much more abstract for you, but everyday that passes the babe becomes more and more real to me, and I find myself talking to them and falling in love with them. I understand your sister, I understand why you thought she might change her mind, I understand my mother. We won't make their mistakes.

I love you. I should've said it letters ago, but I was afraid that maybe it had just slipped out of you and you hadn't meant it, but it's true, and you need to hear it. I can't wait to say it to your face and kiss you senseless and make good on all the dreams I've been having because by the gods, do I have some good ideas.

Your loving wife,

Sansa

* * *

For lack of her, he kissed her letter. It even smelled like the lotions she put in her hair. Had she known he would do this?

Maybe they ruined each other, but he would gladly let it happen for her.

* * *

"Thank you all," Tyrion said, bringing the council meeting to a close. Everyone, save Bran, inclined their heads.

"There is one more matter we need discuss," Bran said, halting those who had already gotten to their feet. "I am in need of a new Hand."

"Your grace, I am only leaving temporarily," Tyrion said like he was explaining something to a child. He'd gotten in some practice, with Little Sam and Joanna, and nothing bad had happened to them. Dickon was so new that Gilly didn't let him out of her sight, just yet, but if he could handle the fully sentient age of children, he was starting to think a baby that could only shit itself or cry or eat would be easy.

"I, Bran the Broken, The Three-Eyed Raven, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, hereby dismiss you, Tyrion Lannister, Prince Consort in the North, Lord of Winterfell, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Warden of the West, from your post as the Hand of the King. Your service has been invaluable and you have proven yourself to be a worthy citizen of this country. Your indenture for your crimes is completed, and you may return to your home."

Bronn started the applause, but soon the council chamber was filled with it. Tyrion barely heard it. All he could think about was returning to his wife and their child and spending the rest of his days freezing his ass off surrounded by those he loved most.

* * *

_My wonderful wife,_

_Bran has dismissed me as Hand. I can now officially spend the rest of my life in the North with you, raising fearsome little wolf cubs. I leave on the morrow._

_If all goes well, this shall be the last letter I ever am forced to write you. I will still write you letters, of course, because I love seeing your lips twitch as you read the vulgar ones in polite company, I love the feel of your lips on mine after the emotional ones alone in our bedchambers, and I love the furrow of your brow as you read the more boring ones and try to work out how best to implement my brilliant ideas or how to rebuke the less brilliant ones. And I hope you will still write to me. I've saved every one you sent me since well before we were married; an entire drawer in both my desk here in the Tower and in my solar in Winterfell are filled with them. Perhaps one day, our children will find them and gaze into what I think is the most romantic, song-like story to ever exist: The brave, intelligent woman who went through the Seven Hells and came out stronger than steel and made the small dwarf of Lannister question everything he had ever believed in to fall at her knees, and she grew to love him in return._

_Prepare your bed. I'm afraid there are urgent matters there that I will settle upon my arrival._

_Your free husband,_

_Tyrion_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more left guys! Let me know what you think :)


	10. flying away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot had changed in ten years, in them and with them. And now they were going to be parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, I've been watching Gilmore Girls and I think the Palladino rhythm crept into this; I weeded it out as best I could but if you experience a tonal shift that's why.

Sansa shifted in bed again, trying to ease the pain in her back. If she was having this much trouble falling asleep when she had the whole bed at her disposal, she wasn't sure what, exactly, would be left for Tyrion when he returned. Maybe they would have to sleep in separate beds for once.

Somehow the thought made her skin crawl. She wasn't quite sure why. Ramsay slept in a separate room, but even back in King's Landing she and Tyrion shared chambers. Perhaps that was it. Guilt from the early days of their marriage, all those years ago. Almost ten, actually. Had that much time really passed?

The babe kicked against the side of her bump, distracting her. A lot had changed in ten years, in them and with them. And now they were going to be parents. She shook her head a bit at the thought. Why did it feel like such a foreign concept? She'd been raised on the idea that she would one day be a mother, bare heirs for her husband. One of her earliest memories was feeling Bran kick against her hand, resting on the swell of her mother's stomach the way her own now rested on hers. The only time she'd actively prayed not to have children was during her marriage with Ramsay and on the road with Theon, Pod, and Brienne, awaiting her next moonblood.

It was the papers on her desk giving her the real pause. The documents Lord Glover had drawn up, and at her insistence; she brought all this anxiety and restlessness on herself, but she couldn't not have them. She had a kingdom to think about. She had to leave them in good hands.

She stood up with a sigh, her back protesting, and made her way to her solar. Her letter to Jon lay half-finished on the desk, abandoned when exhaustion had pulled her to her bed, but now, hours later yet still well before the sun would rise, it beckoned her back. She lit a candle to re-read it.

Dear Jon,

I haven't heard back from you yet, so maybe my raven got blown off course or maybe you've just been away from Castle Black, but Tyrion and I are expecting a child in a few moons. Two and half, Maester Wolkan thinks.

There are certain considerations that need to be taken into account, and one of them is

It stopped there. Writing the words made them real. She wondered if Tyrion's quill had stilled when he wrote them to her, expressing all of his fears. The babe kicked again, like they knew she was thinking of their father. She had fears, too, and dying was one of them. It was hard not to feel like the odds were stacked against her. Her grandmother and her aunt had both died in childbirth, and so did Tyrion's mother. It had been on her mind well before Tyrion had brought it up, or she'd started making arrangements with the council. There was so much she had yet to do, and that included being a mother.

But she was steel. She could finish the letter to Jon, send one to Arya and Bran, too. Tyrion, Pod, and Ser Zane would arrive within the fortnight, so they would be able to talk in person about it. They would understand, all of them, and it was a precaution, nothing more.

* * *

Tyrion was enamored with her new figure. It made her both happy and feel a little like she was on display. With the way he worshipped her, she certainly didn't feel like she'd lost her favored beauty; her hair was the shiniest it had ever been and her skin smooth and bright. Talya seemed unable to comment on her appearance without saying something about glowing.

She and her handmaiden had abandoned her corset a few moons ago, but only now was it truly visible underneath her dresses. Everyone in the keep had known--she hadn't felt right making a formal announcement without Tyrion, but she'd allowed Talya, Alran, and Jonelle to spread the news, and they had. It didn't stop the looks of surprise when they saw her actually, visibly pregnant for the first time.

Her husband did not have such a look; he looked at her the same or, if anything, with newfound awe. He'd become attuned to her in mere hours, knowing what she needed almost the second she had the thought.

Their first night, she had him go to his own chambers so he could actually rest after his long journey, but she barely lasted an hour before grabbing some of her pillows and trekking down the hall like a child. Ser Hectar, on guard outside her door, gave her a look as she exited, but a slap on the arm from Alran sent him dutifully following her down the hall, several paces behind, of course. She'd never met her brother's Ser Zane before, but he winked at her as she entered Tyrion's chambers and Ser Hectar moved to stand next to him outside the door. Tyrion didn't even stir as she crawled into the bed. She slept over the covers, a sea of pillows separating her from her husband, but for the first time in several weeks, her back and the babe let her rest, fingers knotted up with Tyrion's.

It wasn't a magical cure-all, but they developed a good rhythm. They got creative with their couplings, he rubbed her feet and her back if she asked him to, and when she did, eventually, have to start forcing him to his chambers with some regularity because she needed the whole bed to sprawl across, he did so gracefully.

She wasn't an expert in marital relations, but she feared it could just be a calm before the storm.

About a month after his arrival, they had to actually talk about the 'it' she could barely think of without losing her breath a bit. She could no longer see the tips of her toes peeking out from under her stomach, unless she bent over; Tyrion heard petitions alone because the chair was so uncomfortable on her back; and the euphoric dreams had faded into vivid nightmares that made her already elusive sleep more so. Tyrion, bless him, let her complain, but also held her close and she'd even caught him whispering to the babe in her stomach a few times, the scratch of his beard against her bare stomach rousing her to semi-consciousness.

They--she--had decided to take their evening meal alone in their chambers, after a visit to Maester Wolkan. He confirmed everything looked normal, and they probably had a few more weeks, if not more than a month, before the babe arrived. A midwife would soon be coming to stay in the keep as well. If the realization that it was all so soon hadn't been enough of a reminder of the conversation they needed to have, Maester Wolkan also had a letter for her. From Jon.

She could feel Tyrion's eyes on her as they walked back to their chambers. He often looked at her these days, but this was a probing look. He knew that a letter from Jon was normally something she looked forward to, trying to pry out hints of how he was from between the lines of his general reports. He'd gotten better at being less evasive about it, but not much. It was like a little game. A game she was known to enjoy. But she knew for a fact that this letter would be blunt and to the point. Arya's certainly had been, and Sansa had just barely been able to hide it from her husband. Bran hadn't sent her anything, and she didn't know how to feel about that.

Talya was just finishing laying out the food when they arrived. Sansa let her and Tyrion make the small talk that was becoming less and less stilted between them and opened the letter. She wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it if she didn't.

_**Dear Sansa,** _

_**I do not accept. I await the news of your safe and successful delivery.** _

_**All my love,** _

_**Jon** _

She couldn't help but snort at it. Arya's letter had been much longer. She should've known that, while equally blunt, Jon's would be succinct. It was the kind of anger her father would get, that cold, hard look, while Arya's ran hotter, like their mother's.

"What does he say?" Tyrion asked. Sansa looked up. She hadn't even heard Talya leave. It wasn't like Jon had written her the type of letter one could get lost in. Maybe the babe was messing with her brain as well as her body.

"He declined me naming him as my heir," she said bluntly, hopefully diplomatically, and began making herself a plate. She'd been craving venison, and the cook always did such a good job with it.

"What?" Tyrion said, which was fair. Context was important.

"Lord Glover has been helping me draft a will."

"A will?" Tyrion repeated, and the confusion had been replaced with something that could very well edge into hysteria if not controlled. His eyes widened, too, but he quickly schooled his features, and seemed to come to much the same conclusion she had months ago when she'd approached Lord Glover in the first place. "If we have this discussion now, can we be done with it?"

"Yes," she said, nodding for emphasis, and he did the same.

"Alright then. What is in your will?" He didn't look at her when he asked, just filled his own plate. She took a bite of the venison, and swallowed, stalling, but she set her fork down and placed a hand on her stomach. She could do this.

"That if I die, our child becomes king or queen and you are recognized as regent. If we both die, Jon is my heir and will be released from his indenture at the Wall."

"But Jon rejected this proposal," Tyrion said after a moment. His face was blank. She'd gotten much better at reading him, but now he had on this perfect mask that reminded her more of Bran than her husband.

"Yes."

He went quiet again. The mask shifted, slightly, to confusion, but other than that it remained impassive. She picked up her fork again.

"I thought Arya was your heir?" he asked. Now he had picked up his fork, but he just stared at his plate like it could provide him the answer.

"She's now married to Gendry. Lady of Storm's End. The whole point is to maintain an independent North. Bran's King of all of it. The Night's Watch swears off all holds, but we looked; it's not unheard of for them to take up a House that's lost its heirs. Very, very rare, but not unheard of."

"Right," he said, nodding along. He wasn't angry or resigned. That was good.

"And you're the prince consort. You have no true claim to the throne, or even a bed in Winterfell. That's part of why I named you regent, so that you couldn't just be sent crawling back to Bran, not now," she added. That was the part she was most dreading talking about, the what happened to him if he lost her. She'd already made Jonelle promise to remain Hand, whether it was Tyrion or Jon in charge, and she trusted the North with no one else.

"I see. And why did Jon reject you?" With that, he finally looked at her, and the pain in his eyes was clear, tugging at something in her, and the words came spilling out in one breath.

"Because he doesn't want to think about me dying. Arya doesn't, either, and I don't know why Bran's so quiet on the matter but I would hope he feels the same. And I know you probably don't and I certainly don't, but we have to have an answer. We have to think about it. I don't want to just be a footnote in that stupid book of Sam's. I want the North to survive and thrive and I need to know that if something happens to me, whether it's now or fifty years from now, that I left it in good hands." She reached out blindly and there was his hand, and she clutched it, vice-like. "Arya has Gendry. Bran has Brienne and Sam and Pod. If we both don't make it, I want you and Jon to have each other."

Tears were swimming in his eyes, just like she could feel in hers, and he pressed a kiss to her hand, and he'd done that plenty since the crypts, but this time it felt like it had then, like an apology and a goodbye. She let out a breath as he released her hand.

"Alright," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "And with that, we're not going to talk about it again."

"Alright," she agreed. Needing to lighten the conversation, she continued, "I was looking through the family book today, for name inspiration." Tyrion paused, his fork suspended in midair, and looked at her. She furrowed her brow back at him and asked, "What?"

"I assumed the child would be named after your parents. Or perhaps Robb or Rickon."

"I'm not decided, just yet. I feel… I don't want to imagine my parents every time I hold my child. Or have the babe think I want them to grow up to replace my dead family. But that's what's done in the North; you name children after family members and friends and great kings."

"In the Westerlands, families often have similar names. Tytos had Tywin who had Tyrion. Strong Lannister names, the three of them," he said. She was unable to contain her snort, and he grinned at her, all traces of their previous conversation gone from his face. "I suppose they, too, where handed down. There was some variation, of course, as to which syllables appeared where in the family. Tyrion, for example, can be traced to both Tywin and my uncle Gerion. Then it was our second name that was usually directly after someone else."

"Well, I found a name that I quite like, if we have a boy. We could still call him Ned, if we wanted, but it's perhaps more fitting for _our_ son than 'Eddard.'"

"What's the name?"

"Edderion. He was a King in the North, back before the Targaryean conquest. They called him the Bridegroom because he had six wives over the course of his reign, before the Boltons flayed him. But there have been a few Edderions since, mostly distant cousins and the like. It seems like a good way to combine our families. To honor our pasts while creating our future."

He smiled, and she smiled, and she knew they were on the same page on this, on that, on everything.

"I love you," she said. It had slipped out of her early in the mornings or in the bliss of sex, but she had yet to say it, intentionally, to his face like she'd promised.

"I love you," he replied, and this warmth was what the song spoke of, all those years ago, and that realization almost made her cry.

* * *

Edderion Brandon Stark arrived in the early hours of a hot summer night, after over a day of laboring. Tyrion didn't leave her side, even when she started bleeding quite a bit and the midwife and Maester Wolkan were talking quickly to each other in hushed words, but it did stop, and she and Ned were okay.

Her son had ten fingers and ten toes, and, to Tyrion's pure relief, proportional features. The fuzz on his head was a dark blonde, and his eyes were just a shade bluer than her own. She wouldn't be surprised if they lightened to the blue-grey of the Starks, rather than the greens and browns of the Lannisters.

As the heir to the North, it wasn't a question that Ned would be a Stark, and her husband didn't seem at all offended by it. And she wanted to honor Tyrion's heritage still, with a second name, and who better to get them name from than the man who brought them together, not once but twice?

After they stitched her up, they left her, Tyrion, and Ned alone. She had dozed for a bit after feeding him, but very lightly, and she could hear Tyrion speaking to him in a low, quiet voice, but she couldn't make out most of the words, drifting in and out as she was. She eventually gave up, pushing herself up, wincing a bit at the soreness between her legs, and angling herself so that her head rested on Tyrion's shoulder. He kissed her hair.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispered, and she shot him a tired smile, running her hand across Ned's blanket. He had fallen asleep much better than she had, clearly exhausted by the ordeal of being born. "He looks a lot like you."

"He was born less than a day ago; I don't think he looks much like anyone."

"No, see. His nose looks just like yours, thank the gods, and he purses his lips while he sleeps just like you do," Tyrion said.

"He has your eyes, though. I mean, I know they look like mine, but the shape, the eyebrows, even the eyelashes… that's all you. His face is long, too; mine is short and points out at the bottom," she replied, pushing herself closer to him. Tyrion, apparently still attuned to her every need even though their son was now right between them, passed him over to her, carefully making sure he wasn't jostled. He didn't wake up, but he stretched a bit, making them both pause.

"Do you think they're happy for us?" she whispered, knowing he would know exactly what she meant. He kissed her hair again, adjusting himself slightly so that he could tilt towards her instead of the other way around.

"They're happy we're happy. Though I doubt your mother would approve."

"And your father would hate that he's a Stark," she said, chuckling. She never thought she could chuckle over anything to do with Tywin Lannister.

"Well, we owe him something, I suppose. Ned wouldn't be here without him." Sansa wrinkled her nose.

"Let's not discuss your father in our marriage bed ever again." She felt more than heard his laughter, with his chest pressed against hers as it was.

"Agreed."

"I don't think that's true, though. That Ned wouldn't be here without him."

"Oh?"

"We chose each other. That's why Ned's here. He wouldn't be him if we'd had him back then. It's the same way that I don't know if I would be as happy as I am with you if we'd stayed in King's Landing, or gone to Casterly Rock, but here, now, in this moment...I am. And I love you."

She'd always been the romantic between them, after all. She hadn't felt like one in a long time. But sitting here, with her husband, and her son… There would be a family in Winterfell again. One filled with love and laughter and she couldn't wait for it all.

"You're going to be a wonderful mother, you know."

"And you a wonderful father. I know it in my bones. Let's just tune out everything for the rest of the day, okay? Just us."

"Just us," he agreed. He wrapped his arms around her, and she could tell he was thinking about kissing her again.

Ned wriggled in her arms, diverting her attention from her affectionate husband to quiet him. He rooted against her chest and she brought one of her hands up to loosen the laces. A wetnurse was practical, of course, because she had meetings to attend and people to see, but she didn't want anyone to leave her right now, and besides, she'd fed Ned earlier and she'd quite enjoyed it. Maybe they wouldn't need one after all.

He latched on without any real difficulty and she rested her head back against Tyrion's shoulder, watching Ned as he looked up at the two of them and sucked happily. This was what she'd dreamed of as a child. It felt so strange to have it, now, after so long of thinking she never would.

"Did I mention your tits are wonderful, too?"

She couldn't exactly shove him with Ned in her arms, so she settled for butting her head against his, and they laughed together. Her laughter faded into a yawn, but she couldn't sleep. Despite her exhaustion, she'd never felt more awake than here, with them. She'd waited so long to have a family in the halls of Winterfell again. She would thank the gods every day that it had finally come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edderion the Bridgegroom is a canonical King in the North who was flayed by the Boltons; I stole the explanation of his nickname from Henry VIII.
> 
> Well folks, that's it. Thank you so much for coming along on this ride with me. I don't know if there will be more in this series, but I hope you've enjoyed what there is. Leave a comment if you enjoyed this fic; it's awesome hearing from you, and you can come talk to me over on Tumblr at yetanotheremptypage. *waves*

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments/kudos or come talk with me on Tumblr @yetanotheremptypage because hearing from you guys helps motivate me to write. I hope you are all staying safe, healthy, and sane during these times. <3


End file.
